


To Conspire With an Antivan

by Lilou88



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Typical Violence, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Flirting, Forgiveness, Friendship, Humor, Injury, Love Triangles, Magic, POV Female Character, POV Male Character, POV Multiple, Protectiveness, Regret, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 59,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilou88/pseuds/Lilou88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isabela knows Hawke is still caught up on Fenris after all this time, even if she would never openly admit to it. Feed up with seeing her friend so depressed, she decides to take matters into her own hands. When Hawke's group stumbles upon a certain former assassin from her past, Isabela quickly hatches a plan with his help to get the lonely mage the attention she deserves, one way or another.<br/>Meanwhile, Fenris struggles to distance himself from the one person he has ever felt any real connection to. Caught between unacknowledged feelings for Hawke and anger at how her magic affects both his markings and his resolve with a single touch, the elf shows his one-time lover outward disdain while secretly throwing himself between her and any opponent who would dare attempt to cause her harm. This just so happens to include a contemptible Antivan man with a silver tongue and wandering eyes who has taken a sudden and unappreciated interest in her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is an ongoing work in progress which I am dedicating as much of my free time to as possible, which varies quite a bit from week to week. Updates may be slow going, but I have every intention of completing it in due time.  
> I came up with the idea to write this after watching the cut scene during A Murder of Crows where my mage F!Hawke decided to flirt with Zevran in front of a romanced Fenris who hadn't yet asked for a second chance. Seeing how jealous and prickly he became got the plot bunnies in my head going, and this is the result! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've been enjoying writing it. I'll update as soon as I can!
> 
> Special thanks go out to my lovely Betas Stragegibbon and Kyla Baines, who have been invaluable assets in my attempt to make this story as enjoyable for my readers as it can possibly be.

"Ah! An excellent job!" The Antivan called as he threw the body of their last adversary off of his blades and to the ground, "Truly there is nothing like a battle between former brothers in arms to make one feel alive, no?"

"Well, that's one way to put it," Hawke answered sardonically. Grimacing, she wiped the blood off her staff on a nearby corpse. "Though if all you wanted was something to reinforce your appreciation of life, might I suggest a walk along the beach, maybe a good old life-affirming sunrise next time? This seems like an awful lot of unnecessary shoulder rubbing with death if you ask me."

She looked around, finally able to take in the aftermath of the bloodbath that had been their confrontation with the Crows. More than a dozen bodies littered the ground of the camp, among them the remains of their leader, Nuncio. The Antivan, a charismatic elf named Zevran, had gone to great lengths to ensure he was the one to bring about the commander's end, and had done so with a flamboyant gusto the likes of which Hawke doubted she would ever witness again.

"Quick in a fight with an even quicker tongue, it is no wonder they call you the Champion, my friend," Zevran mused, tilting his blonde head to one side while he smirked and narrowed his gaze, sheathing his blades as he did so.

Hawke ignored the elf's comment as she turned toward her friends, though she could still feel Zevran's sharp eyes on her back from across the clearing. It sent an involuntary shiver up her spine, though she couldn't tell if it was because he disturbed or fascinated her. In truth the rogue was a bit unnerving to be around, what with his jovial approach to murdering his own former allies. She would be lying to herself, however, if she said he wasn't attractive or ridiculously charming, certainly on first impressions.

As much as Hawke would have liked to deny it, their new acquaintance was causing an unmistakable flutter in the pit of her stomach, which concerned her to no end. Only one other person had caused such a reaction before. Someone stoic and sagacious, with an enthralling wit and a sinfully rich voice which always left her hanging from his every word. That is, when he deigned to speak to her of course. This someone had also been capable of turning Hawke into a lovestruck imbecile who thought she had somehow proven herself worthy of his affection, even despite his deep-seated prejudice of what she was. Quite an impressive skill, and an effective one at that, as it had earned him full access to her bed and breeches for a single evening's tryst which was still painfully fresh in her memory. Admittedly she knew she would have gladly allowed many more nights just like it, had he not made it clear he considered their coupling a horrendous mistake before storming out into the night and crushing any hopes she may have harbored that he cared for her as she did him. With this past limited, and quite frankly disastrous, experience taken in to consideration, Hawke felt justified in being wary around anyone who made her feel anything similar to what Fenris regretfully still managed to.

An all too familiar wave of embarrassment and hurt washed over her at the thought of him, threatening to send the so-called "Champion of Kirkwall" into one of the melancholic moods she had so far been successful in hiding from her companions. Hawke shook herself hard. Now was not the time to re-open old wounds. She needed to know her friends were still standing and in more or less one piece before she would allow the bitterness she felt to creep into her veins and take root.

 _"You really are pathetic,"_ she scolded herself silently, setting her jaw in determination, _"Three years later, and you're still sulking. Just wait until you're home for the dramatics, then you can have a nice hot bath and mope all you want."_

She forced herself to focus on the others who had come with her, knowing it would be a poor way to thank them for their help if she allowed them to keel over because she was too busy dwelling in the past. Her healing spells might not be able to hold a candle to Anders', but she could at least patch them up enough so they could hobble down Sundermount and back to Kirkwall if necessary.

Luckily upon first inspection it seemed no such assistance was needed. Varric had perched himself on an overturned barrel, muttering under his breath about the gore he was already collecting on his new boots as he brushed them clean with a rag. Isabela was casually wiping away blood which was not her own from her face, joining Zevran (who she apparently had some sordid history with - Hawke was certain she did not want to know) and chatting happily about how she would need a stiff drink once they made it back to the Hanged Man. Hawke gave a small sigh of relief. The two of them were obviously no worse for wear if their immediate concerns were so petty. It was only then that she permitted herself to find their final companion, purposefully seeking him out last so as not to seem over-eager, and instantly kicked herself for not looking sooner.

Fenris stood off from the rest of the group, as silent as ever despite the trail of blood seeping out from underneath the hand he held against his left shoulder. The sheer amount of crimson staining his armor and skin made it obvious whatever wound he was concealing was deep and had been open for some time. Hawke had no doubt the elf had been injured within the first few minutes of the scrap, only to brush off the new gash to keep fighting as he had foolishly done so many times before. She could never decide if she felt such perseverance was admirable or idiotic. Her temper flaring, Hawke stalked over to the elf, who noticed and watched her approach with a grimace which suggested her presence made him feel physically ill.

"Were you planning on telling me you were hurt any time soon?" she asked, coming to a halt in front of him with her hands on her hips à la Leandra Hawke. "Or were you waiting to pass out from blood loss for dramatic effect?"

"It is nothing," he said gruffly, going out of his way to avoid eye contact with her by hiding behind the thick sheet of his hair.

"Andraste's ass its nothing, you're bleeding like a stuck boar! Now let me take a look at it before it gets infected."

"That is not necessary."

"It most certainly _is_ necessary. Give me your arm!"

"No."

"Why in the bloody Void not?"

"I do not want you to heal me, Hawke."

"Oh come off it, Fenris," she said, rolling her eyes while a soft green glow engulfed her hand. "I know I'm no Anders, but he isn't here and this needs to be healed before it gets any worse. It'll only hurt for a moment if you'd just stay still. Stop acting like a child and let me help yo-"

Hawke gave a start and a small, nearly inaudible gasp as something sharp bit at her skin, a brilliant blue light flashing to life in front of her. Before she had time to react, her hand was caught mid-reach between herself and Fenris' injured shoulder, pulled away to the side and held in a vice-like grip which dug the points of his gauntlet into her wrist. His grasp relaxed the instant she reacted to the pain, relieving most of the pressure and removing the stab of the metal completely, though he did not forgo his hold of her limb. She tried to cover up the initial shock at his aggression and the discomfort he had caused her, doing her best to hide it behind a defiant glare before lifting her face to meet his.

"I said _no_ ," he growled quietly, green eyes flashing with some unreadable emotion even as the lyrium veins in his skin quickly cooled and died.

" _FINE!_ " Hawke spat, wrenching her hand from his with far more force than was needed. She spun on her heel to turn her back on him, hands trembling as she fumbled with the fastening of a leather pouch at her hip. After a bit of frustrated searching she pulled a small red vial from its depths, only to shove it unceremoniously into Fenris' chest without looking back at him, wincing as her bare knuckles made contact with the metal of his breastplate. A few moments passed with the two of them frozen in pointed silence before she felt his body shift behind her, raising his hand slowly to the center of his sternum and her fist. Hawke pulled away the instant she felt cool flesh brush against her own to close around the glass, least her traitorous heart beat loud enough against her ribs to expose how he still was able to affect her, even when acting the complete ass.

"Drink that when you decide you don't want to bleed to death," she said with half-hearted snark, her chest tightening painfully at the possibility, "Unless you think my elfroot potions are beneath you as well."

She stormed away without another word, unwilling to wait for whatever boorish comment he would have poised on the tip of his tongue to wound her with further. Moving as far from him as she could without leaving the camp and thereby abandoning those of her companions she was not currently furious with, Hawke threw herself down onto a wide crate by the entrance of one of the Crow's tents, her staff tossed carelessly to the ground beside her. She cradled her head in her hands with a huff, focusing on Varric and Isabela whilst going out of her way to avoid having Fenris anywhere near her line of sight. The two rogues had started fiddling with a few promising looking chests which were scattered among the dead assassins, no doubt hoping to find spoils from their fight that could be fenced in the Lowtown market for a few extra sovereigns.

It did not take long for Hawke's conscience to begin gnawing at her, chastising her for her decision to stomp off without making sure the potion had mended the elf's wound properly. She knew she should at least glance over towards him, if for nothing other than to set her own mind at ease, but her irritation only feed her resolve to do no such thing. If Fenris was so determined not to be tainted by her magic to preserve his precious pride then by all means, let him drop dead. What did it matter to her, anyway?

 _"More than you care to admit,"_ a firm voice in the back of her head said, _"and you know it, Marian."_

Hawke groaned, acquiescing defeat, and dropped her face into her palms again. She had not been surprised that Fenris, being the hard-headed, arrogant bastard he was, had refused her help at first. He always had been slow to concede to the fact that he needed assistance in anything. What had really stung her self-esteem was finding out in such a forceful display that the elf was so wary of her intentions he would rather carry an open wound than permit her to use even the smallest bit of magic on him. It did not help Hawke's bruised ego that Anders, _Anders_ of all people, someone she knew Fenris utterly loathed, had been allowed to heal him without so much as a sneer more times than she could ever hope to remember. She cringed, willing herself not to speculate on what horrible things Fenris must think about her if he would choose a so-called abomination's aid over her own. And yet Hawke knew, even after coming to this painful realization, that she would continue to humiliate herself again and again as she tried to piece together some semblance of a relationship between herself and the former slave. Maker, why did she insist on constantly torturing herself?

"May I join you?" A smooth, accented voice asked, breaking her train of thought and causing her heart to stutter, "Or am I intruding on a private moment?"

Hawke lifted her head from her hands and glanced up into warm amber eyes. Zevran stood waiting a few feet in front of her, the same smirk from earlier firmly in place on his lips with one brow raised in question.

"Oh, no," Hawke lied, pushing herself to one side of the crate and motioning to the newly emptied space, "feel free."

"My thanks, Champion," Zevran said gratefully as he lowered himself next to Hawke on the makeshift bench. Once settled, the Antivan closed his eyes, leaning back to cradle his head in one hand against the support beam of the tent behind them. They sat in silence for a while, Hawke doing her best not to think of Fenris so as to avoid any further dejection in her expression. Eager for a distraction from her thoughts of the warrior, she focused her attention on a flock of gulls hovering above the surf as they sought out their midday meal, the pounding of the waves on the coast below them drowning out their shrill calls.

"It is quite relaxing, isn't it?"

Hawke pulled her gaze from the sea birds to find Zevran's eyes open and trained intently on her.

"What, the whole slaughtering mercenaries thing?" she asked, only half convinced her answer would be wrong when it came to this particular man. Zevran gave a hearty chuckle at her suggestion, eyes glinting as a half-smile curled the corner of his mouth.

"As much as my behavior in our short time together may suggest, Champion, not everything in my life revolves quite so heavily around death."

"You can't blame me for assuming," she said, earning herself another laugh from the elf, "What were you referring to, then?"

"The ocean," he said with reverence, closing his eyes as he took in a deep breath, "The salt in the air, the cool breeze off the sea and the roar of the waves. There is nothing so calming in all of Thedas. Of course, having the pleasure of a beautiful woman such as yourself by my side only adds to the experience."

"I see," Hawke said, snorting in an attempt to hide the pleasurable jolt his words caused. "You can skip the blatant flattery, Zevran, what do you want?"

"What do you mean?"

"In my experience, compliments are normally followed by requests for me to track down some poor sod's favorite long-lost pie tin or some other such rubbish. I've had a long day, so if it's all the same to you, let's just skip to the part where you ask me to do whatever it is you want me to do and I'm too much of a push over to say no."

"My dear Champion -"

"It's Hawke."

"Hawke," Zevran nodded in willing compliance, sitting himself forward to turn himself to face her, "I only say that you are beautiful because it is so. I do not seek any such favors for simply speaking the truth."

"Is that so?" Hawke asked in an attempt to appear nonchalant, though she was sure the crack in her voice made her fluster quite clear. One of her fingers instinctively found its home in a ringlet of her hair, twisting the dark stands upon themselves as she always did when she found herself out of her element. Feeling the tell-tale warmth rise in her cheeks, she sent a silent prayer to the Maker that her face had managed to stay a relatively normal shade of pink and not heat to flaming scarlet.

"Si, Bella, of course," he said with an air of incredulity, as though the point should be obvious to her, "Zevran Arainai is many things; former assassin, thief, conspirator and, depending on who you ask, a terrible lecher, but never a liar. At least when it comes to simple confessions of beauty, that is."

"You certainly have no qualms when it comes to being honest about yourself," Hawke said, smiling at the elf despite the last remnants of unease she felt regarding him. The smug grin and flash of white teeth he offered in response were all that was needed to cause every one of these lingering qualms to vanish. Hawke was no fool, however; she could see there was a motivation other than simple flirtations behind Zevran's casual smile and cajolery as easily as the nose on his face. Exactly what kind of game the Antivan was playing at, or if she would regret her non-existent resistance to it when whatever he was scheming came to a head, Hawke could not tell - though she found herself caring very little. If worst came to worst, she reasoned, she would end up right back where she had started, and if she got to enjoy a bit of convincing adulation along the way then all the better. If nothing else, it would help restore some of the wind in her sails Fenris had so effectively deflated over the years.

"Thank-you for that, I suppose," she said, unsure of how best to continue their conversation from this point, "The compliment, I mean."

The assassin waved off her gratitude with his hand. "Please, my friend, I need no thanks.”

Hawke only half heard what the man had said, as when his arm came into view her attention was stolen by a long wound plastered with dried blood. The lesion stretched from the joint of the elf's wrist down the length of his arm, stopping just shy of his elbow. Without thinking she grabbed his wrist as gently as she could to pull it towards herself, realizing all too late he may be just as open to her assistance as Fenris had been.

"How did this happen?" she asked, surprised at the lack of resistance he offered her as she turned the limb over to get a closer look at the gash, pulling him closer to her in the process. The skin which was not torn was smooth as silk, and the rest of him gave off the pleasant smell of exotic spices and fine brandy. Hawke had to bite her tongue to keep from sighing at the exquisite aroma.

"Ah, that is courtesy of Nuncio. A final parting gift between friends, it would seem," Zevran said easily, unperturbed by her touch or their sudden closer proximity to one another.

"It needs to be taken care of, sooner rather than later," Hawke said, parroting the advice she had given Fenris not ten minutes ago while she carefully brushed away a few loose flakes of blood from Zevran's skin, "It's not very deep, but the last thing you want is for it to start festering, especially since it takes up most of your arm. I have a friend in Darktown who can patch this up in no time. I'll take you to him if you would like."

"Is there no way to treat it now?"

"I'd offer you an elfroot potion, but I just gave our last one to Fenris for his shoulder."

"Ah, yes, the branded elf. I overheard the argument you had with him earlier," he said. The former Crow miraculously chose that time to look towards Fenris, missing the renewed rise of color in Hawke's face. "He is a rather sullen fellow, is he not?"

She turned to follow Zevran's gaze, her eyes falling on Fenris for the first time since their spat. 'Sullen' didn't even begin to scratch the surface of the warrior's current mood. If she had been asked to describe it to someone, Hawke would have chosen 'positively livid'. He stood in nearly the exact same spot she had left him in earlier, shoulders ram-rod straight and fists balled. He was glaring at the closest corpse with ire which would suggest the body had uttered an appalling insult to his honor only moments ago. Eventually Fenris raised his eyes to meet hers from across the clearing, though he dropped his gaze from her instantly, his already stony expression growing impossibly harder as he did so.

"Fenris can be... difficult, yes," Hawke said with a sigh, looking away from the elf so as to avoid the temptation to return to him for a second doomed attempt at making him see reason. "But he is a good man, not to mention a damn fine fighter. He's saved mine and my friends' lives on a weekly basis for years now."

"It seems foolish of him to reject your offer of ensuring his own is allowed to continue, then," Zevran said, returning to his original position with his back in Fenris' direction. When Hawke gave a puzzled look at his remark, he continued, "You offered to heal him, did you not? And yet he reacts as though you were conspiring to poison him."

 _"He probably feels that it's about the same thing,"_ Hawke thought miserably, recalling his harsh refusal of her help before explaining, in as vague terms as possible, "Fenris has had – uncomfortable experiences when it comes to magic."

"I see," Zevran said simply, thankfully uninterested in a more detailed explanation which Hawke would not have been willing to provide, "I wonder, then, if I might not be able to take advantage of his missed opportunity?"

"Excuse me?" Hawke asked, trying to decipher just what the Antivan was implying and whether or not she should be offended. He answered her with a gesture towards his still injured arm, causing Hawke to feel both relieved and incredibly stupid at the same time. Of course he had meant healing, how much of a simpleton was she?

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather have my friend look at it?" she asked hesitantly, a hint of nervousness she hoped only she could hear in her voice. She couldn't deny the fact that her confidence in her abilities had been shaken by Fenris' actions. "Anders really is much better at healing than I am – it's far from my strongest skill."

"My dear Hawke, if your healing abilities possess merely a fraction of the strength your spells from our – disagreement – with the Crows had, then I would not be surprised to see you bring someone back from the dead!"

"Now you really are trying to flatter me."

"Naturally.”

"Oh, all right then, give me your arm, and hold still." She held out her hand and Zevran complied, placing his injured arm into her own as she conjured up the familiar green glow, trying not to allow the feel of his skin to divert her attention from the task at hand. The last thing she needed was to lose focus now and prove Fenris' hesitations valid by making some easily avoided mistake.

"This will hurt a bit. It may be magic, but your nerves still work, unfortunately."

"Duly noted."

She felt the muscles under his skin tense ever so slightly as she made contact with her spell, only to have him relax back into the cradle of her arm. She worked quickly, aware that in order to avoid the most discomfort for the man she needed to finish before the flesh became over-exposed to the tug and pull of her magic. A few tense minutes later, Hawke was able to admire the result of her handy work while Zevran flexed and twisted his mended limb.

"It seems your healing is far too efficient," he said lightheartedly, eyes trained on his repaired arm, "Not even a scar to keep as a memento! What will I have to use as proof that I once fought by the side of Kirkwall's Champion?"

"I could write you out a letter of authenticity if you'd like," Hawke said, pulling out a rag from her pouch and wetting it with water from her canteen. "Or autograph your arm. 'To Zevran, the most disturbing bastard I've ever met. Hawke'."

"I may just take you up on that offer," Zevran said, taking the damp cloth from her to clean off the rest of the blood still coating his arm. Hawke felt her stomach do the smallest of flips as his hand brushed her own and another whiff of spices drifted past her.

"You have my thanks once more, Hawke," he said sincerely when he had finished, handing the rag back to her after wringing it out. "You have been most charitable."

"It was just a healing spell."

"It was far more than the spell, my friend. You must realize that there are dreadfully few people who would so willingly help a stranger, let alone fight by his side and tend to his wounds in the aftermath. Your kindness is a tragic rarity in this world."

Hawke could not be sure whether or not she had imagined it, but she could have sworn she'd seen something in the elf's ever smooth, confident expression falter for the briefest of moments as he spoke. No sooner had the change presented itself to her however than it had disappeared behind tan skin and warm eyes, leaving her gawking at the man beside her. Zevran either did not notice or care that she was staring, choosing instead to look over his shoulder at the others in their group.

"Isabela and the dwarf have finished collecting their spoils," he said, nodding toward the two rogues whose packs were now significantly fuller than they had been when they first reached the camp. "And it seems that your Fenris is growing most impatient."

Hawke couldn't help but snort at the Antivan's words as she looked to the white-haired elf, who had somehow managed to become even surlier in the short time between when she had first glanced at him and now. Fenris looked up, almost as if he had sensed her eyes on him, only to snarl at the attention and mutter something she knew would be in Arcanum and unfit to be repeated in polite company.

 _"My Fenris,"_ she laughed inwardly, doing her best to ignore how her heart clenched at the suggestion, _"as if he would even let me close enough."_

"Let's not keep them waiting then," she said instead, rising from the crate and retrieving her staff from the sand. Zevran nodded in agreement, standing as the two of them made their way to her companions' sides.

"Here, Hawke," the dwarf said upon their arrival, his arm outstretched as he passed her a burlap sack whose contents made a muffled clinking noise. "They had a few lyrium potions on them. Figured you could make better use of them than I could. Your cut of the coin we found is in there too."

"Thanks, Varric. Planning on winning it all back from me tonight at Diamondback as usual?"

"But of course!”

"What about you, Zevran?" Isabela asked, slinging her pack over her shoulder and resting her free hand at her hip. "Care to join us tonight? It's been far too long since I've robbed you blind at cards."

"A tempting offer. If I remember correctly, Isabela, the last time we played I wound up tied to a bed in one of the Pearl's rooms with nothing to my name but my smalls. Do you intend to leave me in such a state once more?"

"If you're stupid enough to bet your armor and then some again."

"Then I would not miss it for the world," Zevran said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. Hawke was sure she would have soon begun to feel uncomfortable with where their conversation was headed, had her train of thought not been interrupted.

"We are to associate with an assassin now?" Fenris asked, the sudden harshness of his voice nearly making Hawke jump out of her skin. He had joined them silently, and now stood behind and between Hawke and Zevran, glaring at the former Crow with an intensity fit to set the man on fire. Hawke saw, with a mixture of relief and annoyance at his earlier antics, that his arm was once again whole. "Does our party not contain enough miscreants as it is?"

"Oh relax, Broody," Varric said, easily brushing off the elf's vitriol. "If the man's as bad at cards as it sounds, you might actually win some coin for once."

"So it's settled! We'll see you at eight bells," Isabela said, beaming as she took hold of Zevran's shoulder and marched him down the path which led back to Kirkwall rather abruptly, chattering excitedly about a hat shop in Lowtown she wanted to show him. Fenris glared after them, not bothering to disguise his contempt while Varric eyed him with amusement.

"Something about Rivaini's friend rub you the wrong way, elf? It's the tattoos, isn't it? Don't worry, he's got nothing on you. Isabela says his don't even glow, can you imagine?"

"The Crow is of little consequence to me, dwarf."

"Then why are you acting like such a tit?" Hawke asked angrily, more to herself than anyone in particular. She had apparently not been as subtle as she thought, however, as Varric snorted into his gloved hand, failing miserably at playing it off as a cough while Fenris finally pulled his focus from the retreating couple to glare at her instead.

"I'm merely wondering whether it is wise to place ourselves in the company of a man such as him."

"And why is that?"

"I do not believe his - _motivations_ – are honorable."

"Isabela trusts him, Fenris, and I trust Isabela. That's good enough for me."

"Yes, a wonderful plan," he snapped, eyes darkening, "Place your confidence in a whore whose disloyalty is the reason you were nearly run through by the Arishok. Pure brilliance."

Hawke felt her temper rise, burning at the back of her throat as a multitude of potential retorts raced through her head, begging to be thrown in his face. She could feel her fingernails digging into the flesh of her palm, and tasted blood as she caught the inside of her cheek in her clenched jaw. The small stabs of pain distracted her long enough to allow a few deep, slow breaths, effectively tamping down her frustration. Rather than sling insults, she settled for a loud sigh.

"I'm not having this argument," she said firmly, "Not now, not ever. If Zevran comes, he bloody well comes. He's not going to hurt anyone by playing cards and drinking piss poor ale."

"Well, that is unless he and Rivaini share the same hobby of starting bar brawls once they're three sheets to the wind."

"Helpful, Varric, thank you," Hawke said, shaking her head as she started on the path Isabela and Zevran had left down minutes earlier, "I'm going home for a bath and a bit of sanity now, if it's all the same to you lot."

"We'll be seeing you at eight then, Hawke!" she heard Varric shout, ignoring him as she trudged along the sandy trail, far too eager for a moment's peace before the night's card game to be bothered to look back.

 


	2. Chapter 2

"You always manage to find yourself in the most interesting of company, Isabela," Zevran mused, his eyes still trained on the fuming mage as she stalked towards Fenris, "This Champion of yours is a fascinating woman."

"Hawke's something else, that's for sure," Isabela said as she scrubbed at the last splotch of blood left on her cheek. "She may not look the part, or act it either, but the girl's hard as nails. She's got quite the mean streak if you're stupid enough to cross her."

"It certainly would seem that way," the elf said, inclining his head toward a pile of charred corpses in the middle of the camp's clearing. "If nothing else, seeing how she fought today certainly makes your story about her duel with the Arishok seem far less fanciful than it once appeared."

"I told you she was a spitfire, and possibly a bit deranged," she said with a chuckle as she set to work on a locked chest. "I suppose it'd take at least a little insanity to go up against a man the size of a bronto with a sword that's bigger than all of you combined for the sake of saving my pathetic ass, but that's Hawke for you. Loyal to the last, no matter what."

"You mean to say the Champion took on the Arishok for your benefit?" Zevran asked, a hint of disbelief tucked into his question.

"Unfortunately, yes," the pirate said with a sigh, an old needle of guilt prodding at the back of her mind. "It's a long story. Let's just say I may or may not have had a little to do with the whole 'Kossith overrunning the city' thing, and if it weren't for Hawke I'd be going on year three of mindless enslavement in Par Vollen by now."

Zevran clucked reproachfully, joining Isabela as she began to sort through the contents of the trunk.

"It sounds as though you owe your friend quite the debt," he said, picking up a dagger with a large ruby in its hilt which had been hidden amongst some torn trousers. "Do you mind if I take this? I know a man in Rialto who would be most interested."

Isabela dismissed the weapon with an indifferent wave of her hand. "Have at it. It's a bit too Orlesian for my taste, anyway."

"Thank you," Zevran set the blade beside his rucksack with a few other items before turning back to her. "You know, Isabela, I -"

" _FINE!_ "

The two rogues jumped at the sudden shout, turning in time to see Hawke wrench her hand from Fenris' grip, her furious expression a mirror image of his own. They watched as the mage whipped around to face away from the elf, only to tear something from a pouch at her hip and shove it into his chest moments later. No sooner had he begrudgingly taken whatever the item was than Hawke tore her hand from him once more, muttering something which, while incomprehensible at their distance, was no doubt boiling with frustration if the frown she wore were any indication. With that she stormed off towards a tent on the opposite side of the clearing, dropping herself with a 'humph' onto a wooden crate, her valiant attempt at a glower quickly fading into a melancholy which the girl no doubt thought had gone unseen.

Isabela felt herself bristle at the sight of it, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Fenris, who was still scowling at the item held in his hand. For what had to have been close to the hundredth time in the past week, the pirate struggled to rein in her temptation to smack the man upside his pretty little head. She instead settled for grumbling to herself as she turned back to the chest in front of her, her irritation earning her a curious glance from Zevran.

"You seem quite nettled over a simple lover's quarrel, my friend," he said, watching with poorly hidden bemusement as she took her anger out on a set of brass scales, tossing them end-over-end until they clattered into a boulder at the edge of the camp.

"If only it were that simple," she snorted, sending another heated glare in Fenris' direction over her shoulder, "Not that Hawke hasn't been trying - the girl's been practically throwing herself at the fool for years now."

"And he has remained oblivious all this time?" the Antivan asked, now shifting his gaze between Hawke and Fenris. "You would think anyone with eyes could see her intentions, they are nothing if not painfully obvious."

"Oh no, the stupid git knows the girl is head over heels for him. They had a fling a couple of years ago. Were thick as thieves too, until Fenris decided to act the twat and started giving Hawke the cold shoulder once he'd gotten into her smalls. Poor thing hasn't been quite the same since. She likes to think she's kept the rest of us in the dark, but a blind nug could see how much its gotten to her. All of her get up and go just sort of got up and left, you know?"

"Is the man mad?" Zevran said incredulously, sounding horror struck at the revelation. "Surely he must be to toss such a woman aside!"

"Either that, or he's an insensitive bastard in desperate need of some not-so-gentle encouragement. Personally, my guess would be it's a little of both," she said, her voice trailing off as the beginnings of a sinfully wicked idea began to form in her head. She shot a glance in Zevran's direction, a devious smile stretching itself across her lips. This was just too perfect an opportunity for her to pass up.

"Say, Zevran," she said playfully, brushing the sand off her knees. "Do you remember that night in Denerim a few years back when you and the dwarf from Ostwick got drunk off your asses on dwarven ale?"

"How could I forget!" he said excitedly, finally taking his eyes off of Hawke and Fenris as he stood to join her. "That was the night I met that lovely girl, Reyna, I believe her name was - or perhaps it was Rana. She was a fine dancer either way, a shame her husband had to come and ruin the fun. She had just started to give me a private demonstration of some of her more complicated – techniques."

"Yes, that's the night. And if I'm not mistaken, said husband and you proceeded to destroy half of my hold and cut down my main sail before I could convince him not to kill you for diddling his wife."

"Lies and slander, I know for a fact we managed to tear apart your rigging as well. I know where this is going, Isabela. You do realize you can't possibly hold one drunken evening's catastrophe over my head permanently, yes?"

"Seeing as I never saw a single sovereign from you to cover the damages, I figure _I'll_ decide when that's the case," she said, leaning up against a nearby tent pole and crossing her arms. "Besides, I think you'll find this favor I have in mind just as fun for you as it is for me."

"Oh? Then this is a scheme I simply must hear."

"You said yourself I owe Hawke a debt and I couldn't agree with you more. I just hadn't been able to think of anything until now," she said with a glance towards the gloomy looking mage. "The girl's been on her own ever since tall, dark and broody over there walked out on her. I'm not going to pretend I know exactly why he did it or if he even gives two shits anymore, but if this were a gamble my coin would be on him just being too much of a coward to put on his big boy smalls and fix whatever mess he made himself. So I say we give him the proper motivation."

"I must admit, I am intrigued. Please, continue. What is it you wish of me?"

"All I need you to do right now," Isabela said, lowering her voice so as not to be overheard by Varric, who had come closer to fiddle with another chest, "is give the girl the attention she deserves. Chat her up a bit, give her a few compliments, let her heal anything you got in the scrap, that sort of thing. Then, when Fenris takes notice, and trust me he will, slip in a bit of flagrant ogling. If I know Hawke, she'll be too preoccupied with fixing you up to notice, and with any luck we should get a fair idea of just how much of Fenris' apathy is a bold-faced lie. Then we can make further plans accordingly."

"So all I must do is converse with a beautiful woman in the hopes of making her former lover mad with jealousy?" Zevran asked, looking as though he had expected the plan to be a bit more complicated. "My dear Isabela, all you had to do was ask! There was no need to lower yourself by resorting to blackmail to persuade me!"

"So you'll do it, then?"

"With pleasure," Zevran said, grinning widely. "There is just one small matter we must resolve first."

"Oh? What might that be?"

"You suggested I let her heal me so she was properly distracted, yes? If this is the case, it seems I was far too efficient in finishing off our dead friends." Zevran stepped back, holding his arms out to either side to allow the pirate a full view of unbroken bronze skin. "Unless you count the stubbed toe I received while climbing up this accursed mountain, I remain regrettably undamaged."

Isabela paused for a moment, her brow scrunched in thought, before turning back to the piles of loot they had divided between themselves from the trunk. She bent down to rifle through Zevran's collection, casting aside a few dubious looking vials of what were no doubt poisons and a blue silken shirt to find the dagger at the bottom of the heap. She took hold of the blade, facing the Antivan once more with it dangling lazily from one hand.

"Then we'll just have to make one, won't we? Come on then, let's have your arm. I'll make sure not to cut off anything important."

"You know how I feel about blatant dishonesty, 'Bela," Zevran said as he eyed the dagger, his hesitance more from annoyance than apprehension, "particularly when it concerns someone who has been nothing but an ally to me."

"It's not really lying, per se," said the pirate, shrugging her shoulders, "more a little half-truth. This was most likely Nuncio's dagger - you can say it was from him if you like, it wouldn't be completely untrue. Besides, this is going to do Hawke more good than harm in the long run."

"Fine, fine," Zevran conceded, holding out his arm. "Just not on the hand, if you please."

Isabela nodded, casting a quick glance around the camp to make sure they weren't being watched as she placed the tip of the blade just under the elf's elbow, pressing it firmly into his flesh. With one swift jerk she dragged the dagger's edge down the length of his arm, leaving behind a neat, shallow gash which quickly painted his skin crimson.

"Well then," Zevran said matter-of-factly, observing the wound with impassive ease, "I suppose we should put our plan into motion before I stain my armor."

"I suppose so," Isabela said as she started cleaning the blade with the rags it had been wrapped in. "Don't worry, I'll make sure Fenris doesn't try to murder you just yet."

"A much appreciated offer," Zevran chuckled as he turned towards Hawke to make his way across the camp to her side.

_"Oh, this is just going to be too good."_

Isabela laughed to herself as she began to work at another chest, making sure to angle it so she would have a clear view of the show which was soon to begin.

* * *

Fenris' breath caught sharp in his lungs as he stared at Hawke's hand against his breastplate, entranced by the smooth, alabaster skin which practically glowed against the metal. Despite the thick layers of armor, leather and cloth barring a connection between her fingers and his chest, the elf could feel the faint but unmistakable thrum of her power emanating from her touch. It raced up and down his limbs, sending minute vibrations of energy dancing along the lyrium lines embedded in his flesh. The feel of it was nothing short of intoxicating, even diluted as he knew it was. Tantalizing memories of gentle caresses and a soothing embrace which were uninterrupted by bothersome clothing began flitting through his head, threatening to undo three years' worth of determination in a matter of seconds. The elf's resolve, already stretched thin as it was from their earlier contact, began to waver, and Fenris had to fight to keep his mind in the present. He refused to let this mage play a role in his undoing yet again. The poetic justice would be far more than he could stomach. He needed to find something, anything to focus on other than the woman in front of him or the unsettling comfort she was somehow still able to torture him with after all this time.

It was then he noticed Hawke was clutching something in her fist. Feeling foolish for not having seen or acted on the opportunity sooner, Fenris jumped at the much needed chance to distract himself. With great effort, he managed to tear his eyes from the mage's hand long enough to find the item hidden behind her fingers. He clung to his new finding like a drowning man to flotsam, more than willing to memorize every insignificant detail of the thing if it meant he would finally be able to snap out of this fog.

The object was small and squat in shape, with smooth curves made out of clear red glass which Hawke was continuing to shove into his cuirass. Realizing she meant for him to take whatever the unknown item was from her, the elf made to reach for it at once. He did not know what the thing was, and frankly he did not care. All that mattered was the prospect of finally bringing an end to the incessant pulse of _her_ in his skin, along with their awkward stalemate. The show of eagerness earned Fenris an excruciating pain which shot through him like lightning as soon as he began to move. A stabbing sensation burst from the wound in his shoulder, racing down the length of his arm and branching out onto the beginnings of his chest, setting his nerves on fire as it went. It seemed the adrenaline he'd relied on to carry him through to the end of their most recent scrap had reached the limit of its capabilities.

As agonizing as the feeling was, Fenris gained unexpected relief in its presence. The longer the pain continued to persist, more and more of the tingle Hawke had induced in his skin would dissipate. His head was finally beginning to clear, allowing rational thought to slowly reclaim what had been overwhelmed by the enticing hum of her magic. Not wanting to squander his temporary advantage, Fenris raised the same arm again, gritting his teeth against the throb which coursed through him long enough to grasp the object she offered. Hawke jerked her arm away as soon as he'd taken a hold of the glass, apparently just as enthusiastic as he was to bring an end to their contact.

Once her hand had left his chest, Fenris felt the pulses of energy snuff themselves out entirely, leaving behind only the ache of his mangled shoulder and a cloud of cruel irony which hung palpably in the air between them.

_"The slave who had known nothing but suffering once again balks in the face of attempted compassion, seeking solace in what he wished to escape. How very fitting."_

Hawke shuffled in place, the sound of her feet shifting in the sand enough to perk Fenris' ears and pull him out of his moment of self-loathing to look at her.

"Drink that when you decide you don't want to bleed to death," she said over her shoulder as though indifferent, though he could tell the inflection was forced, "Unless you think my elfroot potions are beneath you as well."

With that she made for the opposite side of the camp, leaving Fenris alone with a growing pang of guilt coiling in the pit of his stomach which he refused to admit he felt. He stared down at the vial clutched in the clawed fingers of his hand, recognizing it now as one of Hawke's healing draughts. The sight of it very nearly made him laugh. Somehow, the woman was still as determined as ever to help him, even when he'd made it clear with less-than-courteous emphasis he wanted nothing of the sort from her.

Granted, had he truly expected anything less? If he'd come to learn one thing about Hawke during his time spent in her company, it had been that she had an irritatingly persistent need to right every wrong she happened upon. She met each crisis presented to her with the same tenacious desire to see it remedied; from helping every mendicant with a case of bad luck in the whole of Kirkwall to acting as mediator between the Viscount and Arishok, as unsuccessful as the latter attempt may have been. It shouldn't come as a surprise to him that she would wish to see to the injury of one of her companions, even if it was one who had been at best aloof and at worst utterly wretched to her for years now.

Fenris pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, a familiar wave of regret rushing over him like frigid water. He knew all too well that Hawke had never done anything to deserve his callousness - not intentionally in any case. She'd been nothing but an ally from the moment their paths had crossed six years ago, an unexpected source of support in his attempt to hold on to his freedom.

She'd challenged every one of his misgivings about her status as a mage, and proven herself far stronger than he'd ever thought possible. Hawke was no dangerous apostate liable to fall prey to her own temptations, no blood wielding maleficar. Hawke was just that – Hawke: a capable woman with a sarcastic sense of humor, genuine smile and an unyielding loyalty to those she held close to her heart, even if they did not always deserve such devotion.

It had not taken long after they had met for Fenris to begin not only tolerating but enjoying Hawke's company, both during and outside of the missions their hodgepodge group took on. Evenings by the fire in his borrowed home with a glass of wine and pleasant conversation soon came to be a common pastime of theirs, the discourse oftentimes lasting well into the early hours of the morning while the sound of easy laughter filled both the empty mansion and his hardened heart. Before he was even aware it was happening, Fenris had begun to open up to her about his past, sharing everything from his accidental escape from Danarius and ill-fated stay with the Fog Warriors, to the events which had brought him to Kirkwall and everything in between.

Hawke had proven to be a rapt but benign audience for every one of these somber stories, speaking with only genuine concern if she did so at all. She'd never failed to take the truth in stride, showing neither disgust nor unwanted pity at the atrocities he'd both committed and experienced. She always accepted him, flaws and all, without hesitation. Fenris came to cherish the nights when these tales were shared, finding them surprisingly therapeutic. With every one of his stories she heard, the words would come to him with less and less effort, until they ultimately began to fall from his lips as though he were speaking about the weather or any number of other mundane things.

At one point he came to realize this must be what it meant to have a friend, and he'd reveled in the discovery. For the first time in his re-made life, Fenris was content, and it was all because of a mage. The absurdity of this notion was hilarious, and more than once he'd had to hide an amused grin behind a scowl whilst in public for fear of the blood-addled elf noticing and making a show out of it.

He had been happy. If only he'd had the good sense to be satisfied with that and left well enough alone.

He could not be sure how or when the change had taken place between them. He himself had first noticed it in small, trivial ways - the kind which could be perceived as unintentional or misconstrued. Things like a warm smile over the top of an ale flagon, or a lingering glance across a room. He'd brushed them off at first, telling himself the idea of such a possibility was ludicrous, even as he began to return the gestures in kind.

Over time, their interests in one another became less subtle. Fenris, whose composure in battle was normally unshakable, would feel his self-control begin to crack the second an adversary made the slightest move toward Hawke. These moments had the usual result of the poor wretch meeting an untimely end by way of an incensed elf's fist in their chest before they could take a second step. Hawke herself picked up a habit of falling back from her usual place at the front of their party to join him as they traveled, turning a brilliant shade of red as she offered some hurried excuse of wishing to discuss tactics when the others had taken notice of it. Flirtations which grew ever bolder became a common occurrence during their evenings together, and always left Fenris feeling both flustered and elated at the same time.

He would catch himself thinking of Hawke exponentially more with the passing of each day, and in ways which were increasingly carnal in nature. These new fantasies became somewhat of a nuisance, making it impossible for him to look at Hawke while she was leaning over a market stall's display or bending down to pick up a dropped item without feeling the tips of his ears begin to flush. Soon enough, he'd found it necessary to avert his eyes from her as she walked, least the sight prompt a mortifying reaction in him which he could only partially control. He was certain Hawke had caught on to his self-inflicted torment, as with each occurrence she'd looked over her shoulder with a coy smile before continuing on her way, a maddening swagger in her step which screamed of Isabela's interference.

Eventually, after a particularly long day of shifty glances and enduring the sight of the abomination's pathetic attempts at courtship, Fenris could take no more. By sundown he'd made his way to the Hawke estate to pace in her foyer, wearing a hole into an expensive looking rug as he did so. A confused Bodahn and Orana had disappeared behind the entryway into the home's main chamber after his admittedly impolite refusal of their offer to fetch him something to eat or drink in the study, leaving Sandal to watch the spectacle with amusement and a lopsided grin. Fenris had ignored the steward's son, far too wrapped up in his thoughts to care that his last-minute ponderings had an audience. His instincts had howled for him to take advantage of the opportunity Hawke's absence presented to him, insisting he leave with his pride left mostly intact before the inevitable disaster his plan was sure to become came to a head. How he'd convinced himself this fool's errand was a good idea, he was sure he would never know.

It was true Hawke was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most incredible woman Fenris had ever had the pleasure of knowing. It was true she was his confidante and anchor, even if he was nowhere near ready to publicly acknowledge it. It was true, even with his wariness of the unfamiliar emotions she stirred in him, that she was more important to him than anything else in all the rest of Thedas. It was true he would give anything in the world for a chance to be with her. But these things did nothing to remedy the fact that she was and would forever be a mage.

As admirable as Hawke's self-control and lack of a malicious nature were, they did nothing to lessen the magic which still coursed through her veins. In a more normal circumstance this would no longer have been an obstacle for Fenris, seeing as he'd managed to overcome his prejudice and suspicions regarding her long ago. However, his acceptance of what she was did not change the fact that he was quite literally covered from head to foot in brands made of pure lyrium, ones which had the unfortunate tendency to react in negative ways to the presence of magic. It'd been a weakness Danarius had happily taken advantage of during bouts of punishment for assumed transgressions or when he'd simply become bored. Fenris had shuddered at the memory, an image of the magister laughing over him as he retched and convulsed on the floor in agony jumping to the front of his thoughts before he could shove it back into the furthest recesses of his mind.

Years had passed since his flight from the magister, yet Fenris found that the time without his former master's tortures was not enough to lessen the impact a mage's spell or touch had upon his markings. Healings he received from the abomination - which he'd only reluctantly agreed to after hours of Hawke's never-ending fussing and several squabbles which centered around her insistence that he was being foolish - were always far from comfortable. While the former Grey Warden's spells held nowhere near the same level of agony as Danarius' had, there was still a distinct burning sensation throughout each of his lyrium brands the moment the man touched his skin. The longer contact between himself and the mage was sustained and the more powerful the healing magic required, the stronger the pain would become, often leading to Fenris tasting his own blood as he bit great chunks out of the inside of his mouth to avoid showing any outward discomfort. He knew it was likely Hawke's touch, as gentle and accepting as he'd always imagined it to be, would cause a similar reaction, and that fact tormented him to no end.

A small, hopeful part of him had proposed this couldn't be true. This was Hawke, the same woman who, despite the occasional sharpness of her tongue, lacked the capacity to cause anyone or anything undeserved harm. It had insisted the outcomes of interactions with a handful of reprehensible mages proved nothing in regards to the effect she would have on him. It had even gone so far as to suggest that if it was wrong - if there was pain - what he stood to gain would be well worth it. After all, discomfort would be a small price to pay in order to have a woman like Hawke. And so he continued to pace, a battle like no other raging in his own head. Years' worth of experienced logic and common sense waged war against his fledgling desires to see the possibilities this woman held for him, only to cease their combat at the sound of an opening door.

* * *

Realization of where he had allowed his thoughts to wander dawned on Fenris, whose anger at his own weakness quickly rose to push the images back to the far reaches of his mind. He gave his head a violent shake in an attempt to rid himself of the last of the visions, hissing through clenched teeth as his movement reignited the pains in his still-wounded shoulder. The elf glanced down to his arm through narrowed eyes, a groan vibrating in his throat. He flexed his arm expirimentally, only to stop at once for the anguish the simple movement caused. Familiar jolts had begun to shoot along his arm once more, their sensations having only grown stronger in the brief moments of his distraction.

A string of grumbled curses fell from his mouth as the discomfort persisted, slowly transitioning from acute jab to lingering ache. This was no good. The gash ran deep, and had most certainly severed muscle if the growing agony and difficult movement were any indication. It would not do to allow the injury to linger any longer than was absolutely necessary. Hawke had been right to insist on healing him, simple bandages and gauze would not be enough - not if he wished to regain full use of the limb.

Fenris' mouth twisted into a scowl at the realization, his acknowledgement of his need for magical assistance a greater mar to his pride than the lesion itself. The fist of his good arm tightened at his side, reminding him of the glass vial still clutched in his hand. He glanced down at the potion from the corner of his eye, an unexpected sense of gratitude for the mage's infuriating insistence relaxing the edges of his frown the slightest bit. At least there would be no need to debase himself further by beseeching the abomination's - or worse - Hawke's aid.

The elf knew of a small stream which ran no more than a few hundred feet away from the clearing, its cool waters having been a welcome relief for their group during past missions whose importance far outweighed the discomfort presented by a humid summer day. A perfect place for a reticent man to tend to his wounds in privacy. Fenris gave a cursory glance around the remainder of the camp, eager to afford himself as discreet a departure from the group as possible. When he was certain the remaining members of their party were properly distracted – the dwarf focused on a large trunk with an impossible number of locks, Isabela with whatever bawdy topic she had chosen to discuss with the assassin and Hawke by way of her own thoughts – he quickly turned in place to hurry to the edge of the camp. It was a matter of a few quick strides before he was completely hidden from view by thick greenery, the prodding of sharp branches and brambles against his injured arm providing little distraction from the way his stomach had seized at the crestfallen expression he had seen upon the mage's face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figured I should give you all a heads up that there is quite a bit of canon divergence ahead. When I originally wrote this section / planned how the rest of the story would pan out, I fought with myself for a long while over whether or not to make the changes I did, as I like to stay as true to the original story as possible. Ultimately I decided the details I tweaked worked better for this fic and where I'm headed with it down the line.  
> I based Fenris' Arcanum off of what is most likely poorly-translated Latin from Google translate. Apologies to anyone who can actually tell what a mockery I made of the language. He is saying: "Dare touch her and I promise I'll rip your heart out, you filthy bastard."

The path to the stream - or what Fenris had designated as a path in his desperation - was nothing if not overgrown, the obstacles it placed in his way turning what should have been no more than a short jaunt into an exasperating trial. Roots hidden from sight by weeds and grasses jutted out from nowhere, which threw the normally poised elf off balance and to the ground more times than his pride would ever allow him to admit. More than once the branches of a bent and scraggly tree had caught on the fastenings holding his sword in place on his back, pulling the weapon free and necessitating several awkward and increasingly irritating pauses in the elf's progress to reset it.

Finally, after giving in to temptation and simply hacking the last of the brush out of his way with his good arm, Fenris found himself at the side of the brook, sunlight reflecting like diamonds off of the water as it rushed over its rocky bed. He lowered himself to the bank in a slow, fluid motion, legs folding in upon themselves as he began to work the clasps and ties of his wounded limb's gauntlet and pauldron free. The bloodied armor was separated from rent flesh with a jerk, the elf's teeth gnashing against the renewed pain. An appraising glance revealed the injury to be just as Fenris expected – a deep, horizontal gash which cleaved several brands in twain, with ragged edges of muscle peeking out behind thin layers of skin.

He gave a sigh of resignation at the sight before reaching for Hawke's healing draught in the pouch at his hip, its blood red glass matching the gore which covered his arm almost perfectly. He tightened his grasp around the vial, gripping the cork between thumb and forefinger to open it with a small pop. He raised the bottle to his mouth, downed its contents in a single swallow and immediately retched at the taste. Acrid and overbearing, the mixture tasted the same as any other healing potion he'd ever had the pleasure of imbibing, leaving a bitter coating on every surface of his mouth. As he hacked in an attempt to rid himself of the taste, Fenris felt an all too familiar burn begin to build in the center of his wound. The sensation grew quickly in intensity, spreading white hot flames along the entirety of his shoulder before suddenly subsiding, leaving only mended flesh behind in its wake.

He grimaced at the tightness in his arm, stretching out the muscles as gently as he could while muttering darkly to himself. When he was satisfied that everything worked and moved as it properly should, the elf began loosening the buckles of his opposite arm's coverings, intending to take advantage of the stream's waters to wash away the accumulated filth. A dull, residual throb pulsed through his nerves as his fingers worked, slowing their progress. Eventually, the leather and steel of his armor came loose, sloughing off of his arm to fall at his side and into the grass with a muffled clinking of metal.

Bright crimson drew his focus like a moth to flame, his eyes settling on the ribbon wrapped around his wrist. Acting more out of instinct rather than desire, he brought a thumb to rest against the band, his cracked and calloused skin pulling against the fabric as he caressed it. Without thought for the consequences his lax resolve would hold, Fenris' mind began to wander, his thoughts bringing him back once more to the dimly lit foyer of Hawke's estate.

* * *

Fenris had gone to Hawke the moment she entered her home, all concern for potential disappointment evaporating at the look of pleasant surprise she wore at his appearance. He'd said nothing to explain his unannounced visit, choosing instead to admit to his thoughts of her in a rush of few words, before offering to leave her in peace if his advances were unwanted. By some miracle of the Maker, they were not.

He'd fallen upon her in an instant, pulling her into a catalytic kiss which sent his world spinning. He remembered feeling a sense of elation during the first seconds of their embrace at the realization that there was no pain, before losing himself in the moment completely as Hawke responded with enthusiasm. She'd wrapped her hands around the buckles of his armor, pressing him into the cool stone of a wall as she opened her mouth to his own. His hands had found purchase on her body, one wrapping itself around the curve of her waist while the other entangled itself in the plait of her sable hair. He'd trailed his fingers through the dark tresses, stopping when he reached the red ribbon which held the braid in place just long enough to rip it away, freeing her mane to fall about her face in thick sheets. Fenris had moaned into her mouth, basking in the heady scent of almond and sandalwood as it enveloped him.

Before he'd known what had happened they were struggling to scale the stairs, articles of clothing disappearing along the way, while a flustered Bodahn shooed Sandal into the kitchens. By the time the two of them reached the privacy of her bed chamber they had successfully removed both Fenris' gauntlets and breastplate along with the outer coat of Hawke's robes. They'd fallen backwards together in a heap on her bed, clawing at the remaining layers of cloth and leather which separated them as they did so. At some point in their whirlwind Hawke stopped in her task, raising herself from the bed onto her knees to remove what little of her clothing remained, eying him with a salacious smile. He'd been unable to hold back a grin of his own as he watched her breast band and smalls fall to the floor, one which only grew as she leaned over him to reach for the belt of his leggings. Her soft hands fell onto the exposed skin of his stomach, their caress lighter than a spring breeze as they trailed along the thick veins of lyrium lining his abdomen.

All time came to a sudden and jarring stop.

Hawke's magic, previously inhibited by the numerous layers of clothing and most likely muted by the sheer chaos of the moment had fully engulfed Fenris' senses in an instant, flooding every inch of him with a warmth that pulsed as if it were a living thing. The lyrium in his skin had begun to sing, calling out in jubilation as the raw power of the Fade flowed from the tips of her fingers and through them. For the first time in countless years Fenris' markings had glowed of their own accord, leaving him paralyzed as their blue light cast shadows into every corner of the room and added a hum of their own to the cacophony of sensations coursing through his body. It was exquisite - complete and perfect bliss - both too much and not nearly enough at the same time. And then, just as suddenly as the sensations had appeared, they were snatched away.

Fenris had cried out in protest as he writhed on the bed, the aching need left by the magic's departure a greater torture than any he'd endured under Danarius' cruel hands. It's absence left a gaping hole in his very being, a tar-black void which was sure to swallow him in his entirety if not remedied at once. He'd opened his eyes, clouded with desperate want, to find Hawke still straddling one of his legs, the buckle of his leggings half open as she looked down at him in shock. He'd stared up at her, all dignity and sense of pride abandoned as he began to plead through shaky breathes for her to continue. He'd needed her touch more than the air in his lungs, more than the blood in his veins, and would gladly sacrifice them both if it meant she would continue.

She'd smiled then, the same smirk which had graced her soft features from earlier quickly replacing her momentary unease. It was the last coherent memory of their coupling he had before he'd lost himself to the rise and fall of what he could only call pure ecstasy manifested in physical form.

After what had felt like an eternity Fenris had found himself spent, collapsed on top of a panting Hawke whose fingers still traced the markings on his shoulders, distorting her complexion with a final flutter of blue light. He'd rolled off of her, pulling her close and burying his nose into the silk of her hair, immersing himself in her scent as it mixed with the sweat and musk of their exertions. She'd purred into his chest contentedly, resting her head in the crook of his arm while she nestled against him like a big cat.

"Well," she'd said, giggling as she nudged his chin with the top of her head, "that's one way to handle unresolved sexual tension."

Fenris had only grunted in answer, too busy swimming in the last waves of his own afterglow to attempt the formation of any sort of response, let alone a coherent retort.

"You scared the piss out of me at first, you know,"she'd said, a hint of lingering worry in her teasing tone. "You were squirming so much when I touched you that it looked like you were having a fit. I thought I was hurting you, that my magic was doing something to your markings."

He'd been able to muster a small chuckle at that, though he was certain it'd been only loud enough for him to hear. His earlier concerns about her touch causing him pain seemed hundreds of miles away, a long distant memory he was more than happy to see proven wrong.

She had smiled then, wrapping her leg over the top of his under the blankets. "I have to say, once I knew the real reason for the theatrics I couldn't help but feel a little smug. Who knew I'd ever live to hear you, of all people, _beg_ to be touched!"

Fenris felt the bottom of his stomach drop out from beneath him at the last of her words, the post-coital haze which had filled his head shot through with an immediate sense of foreboding and the sound of Hawke's laughter at her own joke. An icy realization was quickly building in the back of his mind, shaking him to his core and chilling the air which surrounded him. In the span of a single heartbeat, this woman had reduced him to a whimpering fool, all traces of his once unyielding willpower dissolved away to nothing by the euphoria her magic had given him. He had been utterly compliant, eager and willing to do whatever she wished of him if it meant she would continue to touch him. It had taken but a few short moments for him to revert back to the malleable wretch he'd been in Tevinter, a groveling dog at her feet, begging not for mercy from the sting of a magister's wrath, but for meager scraps of her physical attentions. He had become a slave once more, and would remain so if this intimacy between himself and Hawke was to continue.

Panic began to set in, causing his heart to drum repeatedly against his ribs. No. He would not allow it. Not for Hawke, not for anyone. He had fought too hard, struggled too long to gain control over his own life to see his resolve twisted by the whims of another, regardless of whether the pursuit was pain or pleasure. Damned if he was going to permit a mage to hold his leash once more, no matter how much he may think he cared for her. And so he had pulled himself from Hawke's side and from under the covers of the bed, a sense of barely contained fury at his own idiocy tearing through him as he made for the pile of clothing on the floor.

"Oh, please tell me you're going to the kitchen for sandwiches," Hawke had said, beaming as she propped herself up in bed against the pillows while she watched him pull on his leathers, completely unaware of the drastic shift in his mood, "I don't know about you, but I certainly worked up an appetite. I think there's a bottle of that Orlesian Viognier you like down there too, if you want it."

Fenris had responded to her prattling with a choleric glower over his shoulder, watching her smile falter in response. He said nothing before turning back to his clothing, fastening the clasps of his jerkin and placing his sword on his back as quickly as possible. He cursed under his breath as he remembered his discarded gauntlets and breastplate in the main hall, and hoped with everything he had that Hawke's mabari, Sampson, had not attempted to hide them with the rest of his hoarded chew toys. With that he'd made for the door, intent on gathering the last of his possessions before making a swift return to his mansion, far too riled to bother coming up with an excuse for his sudden departure.

The doorknob had been in his hand when he heard the hasty shifting of blankets and covers behind him, followed by a voice which somehow could still make him pause despite the rush of anger he felt at the sound.

"Fenris," Hawke had called to him, and he had turned, snarling at the obedience he so willingly displayed. She had practically run to him, pulling her arms through a short dressing robe and wrapping it around herself as she moved, looking thoroughly bewildered at what she no doubt saw as unwarranted hostility. "You're not leaving yet, are you?"

"Yes," he had answered shortly, refusing to meet her gaze.

"And why in the name of the Maker are you doing that? My pillow talk is bad, I know, but it can't be that horrendous," she had asked with a nervous chuckle, a final attempt at humor dying in the rising tension between them. Determined as ever she pressed on, though with a new note of desperation in her tone as his grimace remained. "What's wrong, Fenris? What did I do?"

He wanted to scream at her, to cut her to ribbons with his words, wanted to tell her that this all-consuming outrage was because of her and her filthy magic and was _her fault_ \- but he couldn't. Even now, as feral and furious as he was at how she had affected him, Fenris couldn't bring himself to wound her any more than was necessary to bring this catastrophe to an end. So he had choked back his venom, steadying himself to speak his next words with as little emotion as possible.

"This was a mistake, Hawke," he had said flatly, turning back to face the now open door as he did so to avoid seeing the aftermath of his words. "I should not have allowed it to happen. I apologize."

"Fenris, wait! We can -"

She had been cut off by the snap of the heavy oak door behind him and the sound of his feet as he took to the stairs two at a time, bending to collect a gauntlet and his breastplate halfway down as he went. He scanned the main room hurriedly, finding Sampson curled up by the fire and snoring with his second gauntlet nested between his front paws. Fenris crossed the space to the dog in a few large strides, receiving a half-hearted wuff of protest as he tore the piece of armor from the hound's clutches before moving to the front door. He'd paused at the exit, looking back with mingled relief and disappointment to see he had not been followed, before hurriedly stepping out into the night, ignorant of the scarlet hair ribbon which still clung to the points of his glove.

* * *

Fenris shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the memories, sending a cascade of white hair into his eyes as he brought himself back to the bank of the brook, all previous fury at his allowance of the memories overshadowed by the contrition they had stirred in him. It had been well over three years since that night, and while his anger and resentment towards Hawke had long since diminished, he could not bring himself to attempt to remedy the damage which had been done. The power she held over him was far too great, far too dangerous to be overlooked, no matter how much he may wish otherwise. The way his markings had sprung to life minutes earlier from only the brush of a healing spell which had not even come into contact with his skin had been proof enough of that. Returning to her to ask for forgiveness now would only strengthen the possibility of her magic being used as a tool to coax him into submission. Whether the threat would come from her own hand -as admittedly unlikely as that probability was - or an enemy with a vendetta and enough competence to use it to their advantage remained to be seen. It was a risk his need for self-preservation and his own selfish pride would not tolerate, no matter the consequences.

All things considered, he often times wondered if it would not be simpler - kinder even - for him to take his leave of Kirkwall and the mage's company. He knew his determination could only withstand so much and it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to remain impassive towards the hurt in Hawke's eyes that his spiteful treatment caused. He was quickly growing tired of the perpetual struggle to keep her at arm's length when she was still so intent on piecing together some semblance of a relationship. It did not help that he continued to witness first-hand how her fruitless efforts affected her, even if the content façade she put on was enough to keep everyone else around her in the dark. Her once easy peals of laughter had diminished considerably of late, the sound now ringing hollow in his ears, while more and more of her smiles appeared forced, lacking in their usual sincerity and frequency.

He remembered with a stab of guilt one particular occasion where, after his frustrations at her insistence had gotten the better of him, he had offered her a set of particularly cruel observations on the evils of magic and how the world would do well to be rid of all those who possessed it. The forlorn expression she had worn when looking at him throughout the rest of the day had nearly broken him, and he had decided that enough was enough. That night, Fenris had been halfway through packing his few belongings into a rucksack when he had glanced down to his right hand, catching a glimpse of red out of the corner of his eye which made him pause. Upon closer inspection, he had realized the one-time stowaway ribbon had slipped out from its place around his wrist underneath layers of leather and metal. The elf had stared at it for a long moment, eyes narrowed and lips set into a thin-mouthed scowl. Carefully constructed indifference, already made weak by the day's trials, faltered as remorse had risen to lodge itself in the base of his throat. With a frustrated growl and several colorful curses which reverberated off of the chamber's walls, he'd stuffed the accursed fabric back into its hiding place, storming throughout the room to return the hastily packed items to their proper places. A final utterance of damnation had left him as he'd thrown himself onto the mess of furs and blankets covering his bed, offering the now-concealed token a glare before turning onto his side for a fitful night's sleep.

The elf frowned at his wrist, watching the loose ends of the ribbon flutter happily in the breeze of a light gust of air. He'd never been able to decide why he'd kept the blighted thing and not thrown it into the fireplace the moment he'd realized its presence. He'd told himself it would act as a reminder of the dangers of allowing someone too close, though even he found the excuse laughable at best. If that had been the truth, the sight of it would have acted as a spur for his decision to leave the city, not the tether which had leashed him to it.

Fenris tore his thoughts away from the thing with a final growl, far too distracted by self-disgust at his inability to avoid such counterproductive reminiscences to bother removing it as he threw his hands into the water. He scrubbed at his skin with brutal efficiency, its olive tone turning pink with the rough handling it received. His armor was treated with significantly better care, wiped clean and gently patted dry with the polishing cloth of his sword.

Once finished and re-dressed, the elf pushed himself back to his feet to turn back towards the camp, unenthusiastic for what was sure to be a decidedly arduous trek down Sundermount if Hawke's mood had not improved in his absence. The option of simply leaving for the city on his own remained, however, the likelihood of his electing to do so was negligible at best. The inkling that this decision had to do with his own unease at leaving the mage to make the return journey on her own was swiftly cast from his mind as he began to climb back up the hill.

The elf's thoughts continued to wander as he pushed forward, his sword making easy work of the hinderences presented to him by the coast's plant life. He supposed he should thank Hawke for the quick if not painless healing her potion had given him, but his renewed irritation at her earlier carelessness would not allow it. It had been her fault he had been injured in the first place after all - at least indirectly. The damn mage never did pay enough attention to what was going on around her during a fight, always too busy keeping her eyes on her friends to bother watching her own back. Fenris had tried not to care, tried not to notice the obvious gap in her defenses which left her open to an easy flanking from the left side, but it seemed old habits died hard. In the same instant one of the Crows had made to take advantage of her vulnerability, Fenris had been on him like lightning, fist inside of the man's chest and crushing his heart to pulp before he could take three running steps. His haste to cover Hawke's exposure had come with a price, as his speed had not been enough for him to avoid the downward swing of the assassin's sword, resulting in him catching the full weight of the blow with his shoulder.

The body of the offending mercenary came into view as he crested the top of the hill to step out of the flora and back into the clearing, the look of abject horror he had adopted at Fenris' attack still in place. The elf snarled at it as he approached, spitting on the remains once close enough while he remembered how delighted the man had looked at the prospect of running Hawke through with his blade. Despite his inability to give himself over to the mage as he had once thought possible, and regardless of the terrible things he'd done to her because of it, Fenris would sooner take her blows himself than see her harmed in such a way – the broken corpse at his feet attested to this fact.

He looked up from the body and across the clearing, a strong desire to see the man rot in the void still churning in his stomach as he came to realize his gaze was being returned. Hawke sat directly across from him by the entrance of a large tent, watching him from her perch on a crate beside the damnable Antivan, Zevran, a look which spoke far too clearly of self-satisfaction evident in his lazy gaze. Fenris' eyes shot to hers for a split second before he averted them, a new glower darkening his face. Apparently risking the lives of both herself and three of her companions by helping the murderer slaughter an entire camp full of Crows had not been enough foolishness for one day – now she had to be sociable with the manipulative cut-throat as well. He chanced a second glance in the pair's direction, only to have his teeth set on edge at the sight of them carrying on a conversation like two old friends, Hawke completely oblivious to the Antivan's eyes wandering the length of her body as she spoke.

To say that Zevran bothered Fenris would be to say a house fire was rather warm. The man had proven insufferable from the moment he and the rest of their group had first come across him at the top of Sundermount, striding out into the open with an air of arrogance thick enough for the warrior to slice with his sword. Learning that he was an old friend of Isabela's, while somehow reassuring to Hawke, had not helped bolster Fenris' already lack luster opinion of him. Anyone a traitorous pirate could count amongst their friends was sure to be, at the very least, lacking in a strong moral compass. Seeing him leering at Hawke like some Darktown whore while she remained innocently unaware only added fuel to his mounting repugnance of the man.

Zevran was trouble - this much Fenris knew with certainty. He had seen the assassin's type countless times before: a quick thinker with a silver tongue and moderate skill in a fight whose loyalties lay with either whomever's coin purse held the most weight or the person least likely to hold a knife to his throat. For today, he had found the latter option in Hawke, though Fenris did not doubt for a moment he would have been just as willing to sink his blades into her back as he'd been the Crows' had another more lucrative option been available. Surprisingly enough, Zevran had remained loyal to his temporary allies which, while unexpected, had still done nothing to ease the warrior's suspicions of his true motives. The Antivan's presence simply did not sit well with him, a fact which was only solidifying as he continued to watch over his interaction with Hawke from across the clearing.

Zevran had found some reason to move closer to Hawke, leaving Fenris wondering if the rake possessed the capacity to keep his hands or any other part of himself a respectable distance away from her person without having to provide the encouragement himself. Hawke, for some reason beyond his ability to understand, remained untroubled by the man's close proximity, carrying on their conversation while flashing the Antivan one of her increasingly rare genuine smiles, which only served to stoke Fenris' irritation. She held out one of her hands to the man, letting him place his arm in her grasp before turning it over and examining what looked to be a far from life-threatening wound stretching the length of his forearm. With a slight wave of her wrist she conjured up a green glow which enveloped her hand before bending down to mend Zevran's injury, brow furrowed in concentration as she did so. She was so focused on her given task that she failed to notice the loose front of her robes fall forward when she leaned over him, providing the Antivan an uninhibited view of the tops of her breasts while she worked. Fenris gave an exasperated groan at the sight of it, his frustration at Hawke's ignorance outdone only by an intense temptation to throttle the assassin for taking full advantage of her accidental exposure.

Long after Fenris had lost the feeling in the ends of his fingers from the tightness of his balled fists, Hawke finally sat herself up, watching with satisfaction as Zevran made a show out of stretching his now healed limb. Their discourse continued as if it had never been interrupted, both of them laughing at some unknown joke as he wiped away the blood left on his arm with an offered rag from Hawke. Once finished, the Antivan handed the cloth back, saying something which caused Hawke to smile while blooming a brilliant shade of red. With Hawke still blushing at whatever petty compliment he had offered her, Zevran chose to turn in his spot to look at Fenris, a knowing smirk on his face which suggested he knew the other elf had witnessed the whole ordeal. Almost imperceptibly, the assassin nodded his head back toward Hawke, gave an enthusiastically libidinous grin, and _winked_ at him.

Fenris felt something snap in his chest as he forced himself to look away from the despicable sod, knowing full well that if he had held his gaze for a moment longer, he would have been across the camp with his fist around the man's collapsed windpipe before he could say the word "debaucher". It seemed he had found the reasoning behind his mistrust of the Antivan after all. He risked a second glance back in their direction, still certain there was soon to be an extra corpse littering the camp, when he realized Hawke had chosen now of all times to look at him as well.

Fenris gave a murderous snarl at the assassin before turning away once more, hoping it would be enough to make his displeasure clear. As much as he would have relished the opportunity to demonstrate just how unwelcome the man's ogling of Hawke was, Fenris was sure the mage would not appreciate the unexpected end of her new _friend's_ existence. He settled instead for tamping down on his rage, reassuring himself that they would be rid of the man once and for all as soon as they took their leave of the camp.

" _Tangam eam, et ego promitto ego scindam cor vestrum foras, tibi sordida bastardus,_ " he muttered, more eager for their return home than he had ever thought possible.

By some grace of the Maker his wish was granted, as he had no sooner found himself staring at the same corpse of Hawke's would-be murderer than he heard the tell-tale sounds of packs being fastened and feet shuffling in the dirt. Without a moment's hesitation, he made his way towards the others in their group, not wanting to be the reason behind a delayed departure. Hawke had already joined Isabela and Varric, their conversation regarding a potential card game later that evening floating back to him on the breeze. He pulled up to the group behind Hawke, placing himself purposefully between her and the damned Antivan, lest his hands became as intrusive as his eyes had been.

"What about you, Zevran?" Isabela asked, a mischievous lilt permeating her voice. "Care to join us tonight? It's been far too long since I've robbed you blind at cards."

Fenris gave an involuntary start as he felt his recently quelled fury stir in his chest, any relief he had found in knowing they would soon part ways with the Antivan scattering like startled birds. He glared at the pirate, a sudden violent urge to gag the woman with her own bandana temporarily overriding any remaining self-control he possessed.

"A tempting offer. If I remember correctly, Isabela, the last time we played I wound up tied to a bed in one of the Pearl's rooms with nothing to my name but my smalls. Do you intend to leave me in such a state once more?" Zevran asked, raising a brow provocatively and making Fenris nauseous. Did nothing this man say or do lack innuendo?

"If you're stupid enough to bet your armor and then some again."

"Then I would not miss it for the world," he said, a devilish grin turning the corners of his mouth as he found Fenris' gaze on him, making eye contact with another infuriating wink too quickly for the others to notice.

"We are to associate with an assassin now?" Fenris spat, his disgust towards the man plain for all to see as the last thread holding back his vehemence snapped. "Does our party not contain enough miscreants as it is?"

"Oh relax, Broody," Varric said, his indifferent tone doing nothing to soothe Fenris' temper. "If the man's as bad at cards as it sounds, you might actually win some coin for once."

Fenris opened his mouth, an angry retort rolling on the tip of his tongue, but was cut off by Isabela.

"So it's settled! We'll see you at eight bells," she said happily before turning towards the main path, grasping a bemused looking Zevran by the shoulders and frog marching him back towards Kirkwall. Fenris glared after them as they went, the prospect of having to endure an entire night's worth of the Antivan's prurient demeanor and blatant interest in Hawke's – _assets_ \- convincing him that they would have been better off leaving the man to his fate with the Crows.

"Something about Rivaini's friend rub you the wrong way, elf?" Varric asked with a slight chuckle. "It's the tattoos, isn't it? Don't worry, he's got nothing on you. Isabela says his don't even glow, can you imagine?"

"The Crow is of little consequence to me, dwarf," Fenris said quickly and with an edge he knew implied otherwise. Hawke gave a small snort behind him, apparently as unconvinced in his insistence as he was.

"Then why are you acting like such a tit?"

Fenris tasted blood as he bit down on his tongue to keep from screaming at her for her naivete and apparent lack of properly functioning eyes. How was it possible for such an otherwise bright person to be so stupid?

"I'm merely wondering whether it is wise to place ourselves in the company of a man such as him," he growled, hoping that his expression appeared neutral.

"And why is that?" she asked, using the same tone one would expect to hear a mother use when confronting a petulant child.

_"Because he's a lecherous bastard who's been leering over you like one of the Rose's harlots for the better part of an hour now!"_

"I do not believe his -" Fenris began, struggling to keep his voice level as he cast about for an acceptable word, " _motivations_ – are honorable."

"Isabela trusts him, Fenris," Hawke said, sighing as though that fact alone should negate any wariness he felt towards the man, "and I trust Isabela. That's good enough for me."

"Yes, a wonderful plan," he said with venom, aggravation finally getting the better of him before he could think twice. "Place your confidence in a whore whose disloyalty is the reason you were nearly run through by the Arishok. Pure brilliance."

A long, tense silence fell over them in seconds, leaving Fenris to stare at a livid Hawke who had taken the insult of her friend as a personal affront. He watched a muscle jump as she clenched her jaw while knuckles shone white from tight fists, her rigid stance making it appear that she was twice her normal size in her ire. Eventually, Hawke closed her eyes, breathing heavily through her nose until her posture relaxed. As vexed as he still was, Fenris could not help but marvel at the mage's ability to keep such a firm grip on her anger. Maker knew it was a skill he was sorely lacking.

"I'm not having this argument," she said flatly, a flash of warning in her eyes, "not now, not ever. If Zevran comes, he bloody well comes. He's not going to hurt anyone by playing cards and drinking piss poor ale."

"Well, that is unless he and Isabela share the same hobby of starting bar brawls once they're three sheets to the wind."

"Helpful, Varric, thank you," Hawke said with a groan, shaking her head as she turned towards the path which led down the mountain, "I'm going home for a bath and a bit of sanity now, if it's all the same to you lot."

"We'll be seeing you at eight then, Hawke!" the dwarf shouted, waving to her retreating back with a thick laugh.

"What do you know, Broody," he said, turning to face the disgruntled elf with an amused grin, "looks like you'd do well to stake your claim now before another dashingly handsome elf comes along and steals it right out from under your feet."

"I'm certain I have no idea what you're talking about, dwarf."

"Uh-huh, and I've got a nug for an uncle. Just do me a favor tonight and take the man _outside_ if you're going to kill him in some twisted attempt to preserve Hawke's honor. I've still got Corff on my back about the damages from Isabela's run in with that grabby sailor from Highever who took a fancy to Merrill."

"I'll make no such promises," Fenris muttered to himself as he finally took his leave of the camp, already accepting of the fact that he would most likely be indebted to the barkeep for several broken pieces of furniture by the end of the night.

* * *

Isabela broke into a run the moment she was certain that they were out of the others' sight, pulling Zevran along by the collar of his cuirass down the increasingly steep path. After a few minutes of sprinting they reached a flat expanse of the trail which was bordered on one side by the remains of an old wall. The pirate came to a sudden stop, yanking the Antivan around by the front of his armor and shoving him forcefully into the stonework.

"You bastard!" she gasped, finding it difficult to speak through the burst of laughter she had been struggling to contain, "I thought I said a _little_ ogling! Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to keep a straight face with Fenris looking like he was ready to disembowel you?"

"What can I say?" the Antivan shrugged, "This Hawke of yours is a delightful woman. I would have been doing her a disservice in not granting her the full attention she inspires. Besides, it appears we've discovered just how jealous her glowing bedfellow can become."

"And that's without you even touching the girl," Isabela said, wiping away a tear from her eye. "Andraste's ass, this is turning out to be much too easy! I don't know if I'll be able to make it through the card game tonight without having a fit!"

"Speaking of which, my dear Isabela, I must know," Zevran asked eagerly, an excited glint in his eyes, "What is the next step in your deliciously devious plan? "

"That depends," she said, tapping the end of her chin with a thoughtful finger, "Exactly how long were you planning on staying in Kirkwall?"


	4. Chapter 4

Hawke made her way briskly across the Hightown plaza towards her home, eyes focused on the path in front of her with head held high, refusing to show just how much the sidelong glances and hushed buzzing of the nobles bothered her. A small voice in the back of her head, the last remnants of the skittish girl she had been during her family's time in Lothering, wished she had taken her normal route from the coast through Darktown to the entrance of her estate's cellars. Traveling through Kirkwall's underbelly was neither the safest nor most pleasant option available to her, it reasoned, but it certainly would have helped cut down on the number of gawking strangers who whispered vicious rumors about the mage-turned-champion as she passed.

The slums were dangerous and filled to the brim with the living refuse which comprised it's population of thugs, slavers and con artists, but at least there she could tell the difference between a civilian and someone who posed a legitimate threat. After all, it was far easier to figure out when a drunken member of the coterie intended to sheath his daggers in your ribs than it was to determine which aristocrats had the coin, influence and disdain needed to make an apostate's life unnecessarily difficult. Knowing she would have received a far friendlier greeting - or even a few grateful smiles for her past help from the paupers and refugees who called the sewers home - only served to make the idea of trekking through them all the more appealing.

Hawke snorted at the thought, amused that the rabble of the city would have proven more courteous hosts than any of the supposedly refined blue-bloods who were continuing to take in her presence with a contemptuous air. She hadn't truly expected anything less, seeing as those who counted themselves among Hightown's elite had always been the first to forget any assistance she had provided them- the aftermath of her catastrophic attempt to talk down the Arishok was more than enough proof of that. The district's stuffed shirts had been all too happy to throw adulation at her feet for freeing them from forced conversion to the Qun by way of murdering the Kossith leader, only to balk once they realized they had unknowingly harbored a mage within their midst for months. Granted they were not biased of course - no, not at all. To them magic was an indispensable tool which was perfectly acceptable to wield - so long as those who possessed it either made a prompt return to the Gallows or sequestered themselves with the rest of the population's undesirables once they were finished with saving the city from itself.

Hawke continued to keep a steady pace as she crossed the halfway point of the market, the front door of her family's mansion an inviting sight as she passed by a particularly stout seamstress' stall. She watched from the corner of her eye as the woman stared after her, pointing a thick, bejeweled finger in her direction while she leaned towards a thin wisp of a girl whom Hawke assumed to be her apprentice. It came as only a mild surprise when she heard the tailor's shrill voice shout her disdain, making it perfectly clear to all persons within a fifty foot radius that she was utterly appalled the Chantry would permit such a menace to roam amongst the general populace – and without even a single templar as escort! Hawke sighed as the woman's diatribe continued, painfully aware she could have bypassed the entire marketplace and its patron's misplaced scrutiny if she hadn't been so intent on avoiding Anders on her way home.

The path through Darktown which led to her basement unfortunately also brought her past the front of the former Grey Warden's clinic, making it damn near impossible for her to sneak by without being spotted. No doubt the mage would be perched by his door, waiting to offer her a greeting and a few paltry pleasantries before barraging her with a list of questions the length of his arm regarding the latest copy of his manifesto. Had it been any other day, Hawke would have been more than happy to oblige her friend, seeing as she genuinely enjoyed their visits as well as discussing their oftentimes over lapping opinions on mage rights. Today, however, was the exception to the rule - after a long afternoon of hiking up and down a mountain, fighting off assassins and receiving more than her usual dose of Fenris' chronic hostility, Hawke frankly did not have the energy needed to give feedback on what order she thought his points from chapter five section two should be arranged in. Not to mention she simply did not have the time for one of the man's notoriously verbose conversations if she were to have any hope of enjoying the few hours peace and hot bath she had promised herself before making her way to Lowtown for the night.

_"Should have thrown a piece of that chocolate cake Orana made into the bargain as well,"_ she said to herself, the weight of the merchants' and market patrons' eyes on her growing heavier by the second as she reached the estate's portico. After a brief struggle with extracting her key from the pouch at her hip, Hawke was finally able to step into the privacy of her foyer, shutting the door behind her with a snap and effectively drowning out the last of the catty seamstress' complaints.

Her respite did not last long, as not more than a moment after she had entered her home Hawke was put on guard by a thundering clamor which erupted instantaneously from the main chamber of the building. The mage spun on one heel to face the source of the commotion, lowering into a practiced battle stance as she moved to free her father's staff from her back. Her reaction time was quick, but her assailant's faster, made all the more obvious as he picked up his pace to charge, appearing as nothing more than a great blur of tan fur and muscle. The aggressor launched himself at full force, easily toppling her before she succeeded in loosing her weapon from its holster. Hawke was thrown flat on her back like a rag doll, the air in her lungs forced out of her in a single gust as a pair of over-large paws landed in the center of her chest, followed by a wide pink tongue which happily dragged itself up one side of her face.

"Alright, alright!" Hawke gasped, breath knocked out of her, raising her arms to block the mabari's slobbery attempt at a greeting. "You win again, as usual!"

Sampson gave an excited bark at her admittance of defeat, rear end shaking as he wagged his stumpy tail. The dog easily dodged the swatting of his master's hands, planting a last wet lick on her chin before pushing himself off of her.

"And here I thought I might actually catch you off your guard using the front door," Hawke said, wiping the spittle from her face with her sleeve as she sat up. "You're just too clever to trick, aren't you boy?"

The mabari gave a proud _wuff_ at her question before taking the few steps needed to close the distance separating them, shoving his nose into her side to sniff at her robes. Hawke placed a hand on the dog's wide shoulders, using him as leverage to bring herself off of the floor and clumsily to her feet.

"Do you think next time you can do me a favor and wait for me to get this thing off my back before you run me over?" she asked with a grimace, one hand resting on the animal's head as she gestured to the gilded stave between her shoulder blades. "Not that I don't appreciate your enthusiasm, of course. It's just a bit uncomfortable having your spine shoved into a statuette of a naked lady by a bloody great war hound's feet."

Sampson gave what Hawke made out to be an apologetic whimper before nuzzling his snout into the palm of her hand, looking up at her with wide brown eyes she was certain could have melted the heart of the Archdemon itself.

"Come off it, you. It's not like you're in trouble. Save your best material for when you and Sandal decide to make another mess like what you did to the pantry last week, otherwise I may just become immune."

The dog barked once before sitting back on his haunches and raising a thick brow, his head cocked to one side.

"Oh fine, you're right. That'll never happen. Maker knows you really are too damn adorable for your own good. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you'd started letting it go to your head."

Sampson snorted before standing to turn himself towards the main chamber, trotting back to flop himself down onto the rug in front of the mantel now that he had finished with their customary welcome. Hawke chuckled at the dog's antics as she followed him into the room, a familiar voice floating towards her from behind a side door which led to the servant's quarters and the estate's small garden.

" - straight back to our room for a wash after we bring these to the kitchen, my boy. We don't need to be making work for Orana now, do we?"

"Enchantment!" another voice said happily as the door opened, revealing two thick-set dwarves who were each holding baskets close to overflowing with freshly picked vegetables. Bodahn was smiling warmly at Sandal who was so completely covered in dirt and grime Hawke couldn't be sure where the filth ended and the boy began. Sampson lifted his head from his paws at the sound of the young man's voice, jumping to his feet with a happy bark at the sight of them in the doorway.

"Doggy!" Sandal shouted, throwing his hands in the air and bolting towards the mabari, a cascade of tomatoes, carrots and heads of lettuce falling to the floor in his wake.

"Sandal, no!" Bodahn cried in exasperation, watching horror-struck as he and the dog began an impromptu game of chase, a trail of mud falling from the boy's clothing to outline their path from one corner of the room to the other. The older man dropped his own basket of produce to the ground as he bustled after the blond dwarf, who was far too engrossed in his attempts to jump on Sampson's back to take any notice of his father. Hawke stood in the middle of the chaos, her mouth clamped shut in a thin line as she tried her best not to laugh at the ridiculous sight of Bodahn dodging piles of muck and tripping over a large eggplant in his effort to take hold of his son.

The spectacle was entertaining to say the least, though Hawke could tell Bodahn was at a disadvantage if the violent shade of red his face had turned and the way he was clutching at his chest after a few minutes' passing were any indication. Deciding it would be best to bring a stop to the pandemonium before her steward had a heart attack in her parlor, the mage shoved two fingers into her mouth to give a short, sharp whistle which easily caught the attention of her hound despite his preoccupation. Sampson changed course abruptly, sliding on the smooth tiled floor and nearly overturning her writing desk in his eagerness to reach her. He skidded to an unusually graceful stop in front of her, ears perked and tail thumping on the floor as he eyed a piece of dried jerky she had produced from a pocket of her robes. Hawke shook her head with a short laugh as she tossed the meat to the mabari, who caught it in his jaws just as Sandal slammed into him at a full run, unable to slow himself in time. The momentum of the collision sent both the boy and the dog careening into her, knocking the mage off of her feet and onto the ground for a second time.

"I'm terribly sorry about all this mess, messere!" Bodahn said hurriedly, huffing to catch his breath as he pulled Sandal and Sampson from the tangle of limbs and off of Hawke, "The boy's been most excitable today. Oh dear me, your clothes!"

Hawke struggled once again to her feet, grasping Bodahn's extended hand to help hoist herself off of the floor. Her robes, already caked in dust and sand from the coast, were now also covered in several large splotches of dark mud which gave off the pungent odor of plant fertilizer.

"Well, I suppose it's a good thing I'm about to take a bath, isn't it?"

"I'll fill the tub for you straight away," Bodahn said, rushing to take hold of Sandal's arm to prevent him from wandering off. "I'll be up with the water just as soon as I get the boy settled. Wouldn't want him going into the study and staining the carpet while my back's turned."

"That's fine, Bodahn, really. I can handle it myself," Hawke said with a wave of her hand, picking up the hem of her robes as she made for the foot of the staircase so as not to drag any more muck across the floor. "It looks like Sampson could use a good soak when you have a moment though, if you don't mind."

The mabari gave a low whine past the piece of jerky still hanging out of one side of his mouth, pinning his ears against his head and shooting his master what could only be described as a betrayed glower. Without a second glance he turned tail and fled, barreling through the door the dwarves had come through earlier to reveal a muddy imprint of where Sandal had fallen against his back before disappearing down the hall.

"Of course, messere, Sandal and I will see to it at once. Don't you worry about the mess, we'll be sure to take care of all this before Orana gets back from the market. Poor girl had just finished scrubbing the floors - we wouldn't want her to see them like this already, now would we?" Bodahn said, his question directed at Sandal as he moved to steer him towards the servant's quarters. The boy hesitated to follow his father's lead, remaining rooted to the spot with brows knitted together over a troubled frown as he slowly looked about the room, appearing as though he was just then coming to realize the extent of the havoc he had wrought.

"I'm sorry, Lady," he said eventually, eyes downcast and focused on his dirt-stained fingers after throwing a sheepish glance in Hawke's direction.

"It's alright, Sandal," she said gently, offering him a small smile, "Maker knows this place is dull as dishwater most days. It's nice to have a little excitement every now and again, don't you think?"

"Enchantment!”

Bodahn beamed at Hawke as he began a second attempt to usher the boy out of the room, taking special care to lead him around the scattered produce littering the ground as they went.

By the time Hawke had turned and climbed the stairs to the second floor landing the sound of the older dwarf's patient lecturing had faded away to nothing, leaving the home in an eerie silence punctuated only by the sound of her shoes tapping against the floor. She reached the door to her bedchamber in a matter of a few long strides, the groaning protests of its hinges as she opened it reverberating throughout the empty mansion and sending a shiver down her spine. Hawke wasted no time stepping into the room, its smaller space and plush carpet a welcoming contrast to the main hall's cold stonework and imposing size. A low fire had been banked to the back of the mantel's hearth, its flames bathing the walls and furniture in a flickering amber glow. The mage paused for a moment to soak in the warmth before making her way around the room, closing the chamber door and ensuring all the window dressings were properly fastened as she went. Once certain she had eliminated the risk of being spotted in her unmentionables by any prying eyes of her neighbors and after setting her staff aside, Hawke made quick work of peeling herself out of her robes, tossing each soiled layer into a pile by her doorway to be brought downstairs with the rest of the wash.

Stripped down to naught but what the Maker gave her, Hawke crossed to the farthest corner of the chamber, ducking behind a thin privacy screen which concealed an empty wash tub and stand from the rest of the room. The mage sat on the rim of the porcelain basin, blowing a loose strand of black hair out of her eyes as she began to conjure water into the vessel. Once filled, a single well placed fire spell was enough to warm the whole of the tub, turning the bath into an inviting pool of steaming water in a matter of seconds. Hawke hissed as she slipped both of her feet into the basin, the heat sending goosebumps up the length of her legs and torso as she slowly lowered herself into its depths. She gave a contented sigh as she leaned back to rest her head against the vessel's edge, all the tension her muscles had carried for the better part of a day melting away as the water lapped at her skin.

This was her bliss, pure and simple - a short length of time where she could finally allow herself to relax, even if just for a few fleeting hours. For once there were no contracts to fulfill, no highbrow nobles glaring down their noses at her, no slavers, demons or any number of other nasty things trying to kill her or her friends, and (quite possibly best of all) no Meredith and Orsino squabbling in her ear like an old married couple. In fact, she thought with a slight pang, the only thing this otherwise perfectly serene moment was missing was a certain white-haired elf for her to share it with.

Hawke gave a shudder which had nothing to do with the sweltering temperature of the bath, her mind straying to dangerous places behind closed eyes before she could stop herself as she sank deeper below the surface of the water.

_There was a lithe, firm body resting behind her, its owner's arms enveloping hers as they pulled her flush against his chest. Calloused fingers made soft by the water rubbed circles into the knuckles of her hands, tracing the lines of old scars with a firm but gentle touch. The scent of dry wine and polished leather surrounded her, filling the air with an aroma she would forever associate with long nights spent in pleasant company and an intimate embrace which had proven surprisingly tender. A breath of air stirred the hair at her temples, sending a pleasant jolt down the length of her spine as a deep voice began whispering in a beautiful, foreign tongue - murmured words she knew he would not yet have the courage to say in a dialect she understood. His hands moved from her own up the length of her arms, kneading the taut muscles until she felt herself turn to putty in his grasp. Once his ministrations reached the top of her shoulders, the long strands of her hair were slowly pulled together, gathered and placed in such a way that it left one side of her pale neck bare and vulnerable. Warm lips gladly took advantage, drawing a long, languorous line from the dip of her collar bone to the spot of sensitive flesh just below her ear. Her breath caught audibly in her lungs as his tongue darted out to lave her skin. Her reaction pulled a rumbling laugh from deep within the man's chest, its vibrations reaching out to race down her spine to the tips of her toes. His right hand began to move again, sliding back down her arm and across to the center of her torso in one smooth motion. His fingers traced lines up and down, coming teasingly closer and closer to the underside of her breasts with every pass. Hawke's head fell limp against his shoulder, a quiet moan escaping her mouth as she fought the urge to take hold of the limb and place it where she most wanted him to touch. Another chuckle fell from his lips at her frustration, this one rustling the dark hairs at the nape of her neck. His hand, which had come to rest at her navel, glided over her skin, though not in its expected course to the center of her chest. Instead it changed its path entirely, causing Hawke to take in a sharp gasp as it traveled a deliberate line through the water and towards the heat of her center, his middle finger finding the first tufts of coarse hair when -_

A blinding blue light tore itself through the forefront of her thoughts, dispersing her apparition and replacing it with an entirely different image of Fenris, his lyrium veins ablaze as a sneer twisted the corners of his mouth and wrinkled the edges of his nose. In the span of a single instant her mind had transported her back to the damned camp along the Wounded Coast, the memories of their earlier confrontation still fresh enough that she swore she could smell the salt in the air and feel the stab of the warrior's gauntlets as he held her hand in an iron-clad grip.

_"I said no,"_ she heard him growl, his rejection echoing through her head and trampling all of which remained of the magnificent illusion she had constructed for herself.

Hawke frowned as she opened her eyes, silently berating herself for her foolishness as she pulled her wandering fingers back from the joint of her hip. Just what in the name of Andraste's great flaming arse had she thought she was doing, anyway?

_"Nothing,"_ a voice in the back of her head said in irritation, _"that's the problem, isn't it? You weren't thinking at all, you dolt."_

The mage groaned, pressing her elbows into her knees as she ground the heels of her hands into her eyes. She really was an idiot, wasn't she? She needed to move on, knew it was high time she stopped acting like a heartsick girl hoping for a second chance and accepted the fact that Fenris felt nothing for her, yet here she was letting herself daydream about him. Forgetting about their night together was difficult enough as it was, she scolded herself, and lingering over asinine fantasies all for the sake of a good wank would do nothing but lengthen the already painful process.

_"Stupid, so very stupid,_ " Hawke grumbled, throwing herself back against the edge of the basin and sending a wave of water sloshing over the brim. Her eyes screwed themselves shut as she pinched the bridge of her nose in irritation, her anger at fouling her perfectly content mood with thoughts of _him_ enough to ensure her mind would not roam in such directions again – or at least for the remainder of the afternoon.

After several long minutes of wallowing in self-disgust, Hawke felt herself finally begin to relax, the first tentative signs of sleep tugging at the edges of her mind. With several hours left before she was to meet her friends for the evening, she let herself sink lower into the still-hot bathwater with a grin, content to enjoy her luxury for just a little while more. It was not long before her eyes drifted shut, her mind slipping free of the waking world to wander the incorporeal planes of the Fade once more, flashes of white hair and familiar green eyes forever playing on the edge of her vision.

* * *

"Well, if I had known this is how you were planning on spending the rest of your day I would have asked if I could join you."

Hawke jolted forward, pulled roughly from sleep by the sudden voice. She floundered in the chilled water, churning its surface as she tried in vain to hide her nakedness by yanking her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, only to have her fumblings met by a hearty laugh from the intruder.

"Oh please, Hawke, it's not like I haven't seen the goods before. You can't make a habit of skinny dipping with someone and expect them not to take a peek every now and then."

Hawke glanced to her right, a sense of piqued relief rushing over her as she took in the sight of Isabela perched on the lip of the tub, one leg draped nonchalantly over the other, an amused smirk curling her mouth.

"Maker's breath, 'Bela, have you never heard of knocking?"

"I did, sweet thing, but a certain someone was too busy napping to take any notice," the woman said with a shrug as she stood, stretching her arms above her head so her bust strained against the binding of her corset. "Now hurry it up, would you? Everyone's been waiting for you to grace us with your presence for ages. Poor Merrill's worked herself into a tizzy thinking you got yourself killed on the way to the pub."

"Wait, what?"

Hawke scrambled to lean herself out of the basin to peer around the screen at the grandfather clock on the opposite side of the room. Her mouth fell open as she realized the time, caught between disbelief and mounting annoyance; she'd not only spent the entirety of the first afternoon she'd had to herself in weeks asleep in a tub, but she was also an hour and half late in meeting her friends at the Hanged Man.

"Damn it! Give me five minutes!"

Hawke threw a hand out to grab an untouched bar of soap from the wash stand, rushing to sink her head under the bath water for the first time. Far too preoccupied with berating herself, she failed to notice Isabela slink behind the partition and towards her armoire as well as the devilish grin the pirate hid from her view. She hurriedly worked the soap into a frothy lather, raking it through her sodden hair with fingers which didn't pause for painful tangles. With her scalp still crying out in indignation at the roughness of the attentions it had received, Hawke began scrubbing at her skin with a wash rag collected from the same bathstand, quickly covering herself in a thin layer of foam before submerging once more to rinse it away. No sooner had she raised her head from the water than she was clambering out of the basin to snatch up a towel, drying herself off and ruffling her hair into a renewed mess as she stumbled out from behind the privacy screen.

"Here, put these on," Isabela said, tossing Hawke a set of small clothes, breast band and pair of cotton breeches before turning back to the dresser, furrowing her brow in frustration as she returned to rifling through her drawers, "Do _all_ of your blouses look like they could have come from a cloistered sister's closet?"

"Just the ones that haven't been ripped to shreds or stained with blood."

"Oooh! Hawke, you've been holding out on me!" Isabela cooed a moment later, pulling the mage's attention from the laces of her trousers with a flash of something red she had wrenched out of the deepest recesses of the bureau. The pirate spun around with a dramatic flourish to reveal a low-cut silk tunic clutched in her fingers, its fabric dyed a brilliant shade of scarlet, golden stitching glowing in the low firelight.

"Oh, that thing," Hawke said with a grimace, glaring at the garment as if it might grow fangs and bite her. "The Comtess de Launcet gave it to me after we helped that idiot son of hers sneak away from the Circle a few months back."

"And why in the bloody Void haven't I seen you wear it? It's gorgeous!"

"It's a bit revealing, don't you think? It reminds me of something one of the girls from the Rose might wear on their day off."

"Nonsense, you should at least try it on! Showing a little skin for once isn't going to kill you. It might even get you a free drink or two," Isabela said insistently, crossing the space between them to yank the tunic over her head before she had a chance to protest. Hawke wriggled in place for a few moments, fighting to bring her hands up and through the sleeves of the tight-fitting shirt while throwing several grumbled curses about being treated like a mannequin in the pirate's direction. With the top finally in place Isabela spun the mage around, beaming at their reflection in a floor length mirror which rested in the corner of the room.

"What did I tell you? It looks fantastic!"

"I guess it looks – nice," Hawke said reluctantly as she cast herself in a critical eye, surprised to find she liked the way the fabric clung to her skin and accentuated her curves. "But do you really think it's necessary? We're just going to play cards, not seduce a politician."

"Oh will you stop worrying and live a little, Hawke?" Isabela said with a roll of her eyes, turning towards a nightstand to rummage through an old jewelry box. "I swear you can be more of a prude than Aveline some days. Now quit dawdling and tell me where you keep your damn hair ribbons, you look like a rat's made a nest on top of your head."

The mage snorted as she joined her friend, opening a small compartment in the box to reveal several colorful strips of satin.

"Always such a charmer, 'Bela."

"Didn't you have a red one at some point?" Isabela asked, a puzzled look crossing her face as she pawed through the ribbons, "I feel like I've seen you wear it before."

"I did, but it went missing ages ago. I keep forgetting to pick up a new one when I pass through the market."

"Gold it is, then. At least it'll match the stitching," the pirate said, pulling the fabric from the box and forcing Hawke onto the edge of her bed in one fluid movement. No sooner had the mage's rear end hit the mattress than her friend had begun attacking the knots of her hair, showing no mercy as she tugged through it with a comb procured from Maker only knew where. Once the majority of the gnarls and snags had been removed and well after Hawke was convinced she would never quite regain all the feeling in her scalp, Isabela quickly threw the tresses into a simple but elegant braid, using the ribbon to tie off the end.

"Now, don't you look pretty as a painting?" she asked with a warm smile, placing her hands on her hips as she admired the results of her handiwork. "You'll be turning heads tonight, Sweetness, that's for sure."

"If you say so, 'Bela," Hawke sighed, though she could not help but give her own small grin as she stood from the bed to collect her boots and move towards the exit. "Let's get going. I'm late enough as it is and I want to get there before everyone's too drunk to win any of my coin."

"Hawke, if our game last week was any proof, we'd all have to be passed out stone cold under the table before you needed to worry about that."

Isabela gave a small shriek of laughter, easily dodging both her friend's light-hearted shoves and thrown shoe as they stumbled past the chamber door, down the stairs, and out into the night.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 Fenris sat in his usual place at the table in Varric's suite, dark brows pulled together in feigned concentration as he stared at the cards held in his grasp, only partially aware of the inane conversations surrounding him. His free hand closed around his mug as he raised it to his lips, drawing deeply from the foul tasting bilge water the Hanged Man passed off as ale in an attempt to distract himself from the gnawing unease which had taken up residence in the back of his mind. His eyes shot to the battered clock resting above the fireplace as he choked down his mouthful of swill, scowling in frustration as he watched the small hand tick ever closer to the tenth hour of the night.

"Hey, Broody, are you in this round or not? It's been your turn to raise for the past ten minutes!" Varric said loudly, thumping his fist against the top of the table to catch the man's attention and rattling the scattered glasses covering its surface in the process. Fenris gave a start at the commotion before snapping himself out of his distracted thoughts, rushing to tear his focus from the timepiece on the wall and turning back to the other members of their group as he schooled his face into a carefully blank expression.

Varric slumped against the arm of his chair in exasperation, easily seeing through the warrior's show of indifference as their gazes met. "Oh come on now, elf, not you too! By the Ancestors, am I the only one here not panicked over Hawke being a little late? You do realize you're all working yourselves up over nothing, right?"

"I would hardly call an infallibly punctual woman being two hours overdue 'nothing,' dwarf," he snapped out of reflex, realizing too late that his retort had also been an indirect admittance of concern for the missing mage, a fact which was unfortunately not lost on Varric. The rogue's eyes brightened in interest at his comrade's accidental revelation, meeting the elf's glowering with a knowing look before returning his gaze to his own flagon of ale, the faintest hint of a smug grin making the corner of his mouth curve around it's brim. Fenris felt his temper flare at the sight of it, thoroughly cursing the perceptive dwarf as well as his own idiocy as he glanced over his cards, too riled to bother taking notice of their rank or suit. He hastily tossed a silver into the small pile of coin in the center of the table, eager for the chance to move the game along in hopes that it would be enough of a distraction to prevent anyone else from recognizing his confession for what it was.

"Fenris does make a good point, Varric," Sebastian said, a frown drawing faint lines across his forehead as he pushed a few coins of his own towards the pot. "I've never known Hawke to be late for anything, least of all a game of Diamondback. This is all more than a bit disconcerting if you ask me."

"You don't think something's happened to her, do you Sebastian?" The witch asked nervously, her wide-eyed stare growing impossibly larger as she worried at the frayed hem of her scarf. "Oh, I knew we shouldn't have let Isabela go off looking for her on her own, what if they're both in trouble now? This is just terrible!"

"Daisy, don't waste your time listening to Choir Boy," Varric said gently, a wide hand patting the Dalish girl on the forearm while throwing the ex-prince a chastising glare when she wasn't looking. "It's like I told you earlier. There's no reason for us to rouse the guard and send out a search party when Hawke probably just fell asleep face first in a pile of paperwork. Or Blondie's manifesto."

"I'm sitting right here, you know. I think you'd find it fairly informative, Varric. If you'd just -"

"Not even with a knife to my throat and a razor to my chest hair, friend. I'm no glutton for punishment," he said, chuckling over the mage's sputtering before turning back to the fretting girl and cuffing her softly on the chin. "Now enough with all the worrying, all right? For me? All you're going to do is make yourself sick at this rate, and Norah'll make my life miserable if we give her another mess to clean. I promise, Rivaini's got it more than under control."

"I rather have to agree with Varric, my dear - Merrill, yes? The chances of our friends running into any real danger are doubtful at best," an accented voice said, it's reappearance enough to set Fenris' blood boiling. The elf looked up from the dregs of his tankard, aware and uncaring of his obvious disgust as he took in the sight of the Antivan seated before him. Zevran was lounging contentedly in his chair, legs outstretched and resting over the top of the armrest as he swirled a tumbler of dark liquor in one hand, the same smirk he had worn earlier in the day while leering at Hawke testing the borders of Fenris' already limited patience.

It had been much to the warrior's dismay that the assassin had met little to no resistance in assimilating into their party. Isabela's enthusiastic endorsement and his suave smile had made short work of any initial reluctance the others may have felt towards him. The Crow had then effortlessly wormed his way into their good graces with a few honeyed words, his offer to cover the first round of drinks for the evening the final push needed to shift their opinions firmly in his favor. Even Sebastian had fallen victim to the Antivan's charms, something which had come as a shock considering how severely Zevran's former occupation clashed with the devout Andrastian's beliefs and past experience with mercenaries.

A low grumble reverberated in Fenris' throat as he drank again from his flagon.

_“Halfwits, the lot of them.”_

Was he honestly the only member of Hawke's group competent enough to see the repugnant man for what he was? The elf continued to watch in contempt as the Antivan leaned forward, taking an unhurried slip from his drink and smacking his lips together in appreciation before setting it down on top of his cards.

"Even if they had, I can guarantee you that there is no need to worry yourself over their safety. I have seen for myself what happens to those who make the mistake of crossing blades with 'Bela more times than I can recall, and I am sure everyone here has witnessed what your Hawke is capable of when threatened. Believe me when I say I feel nothing but remorse for any fool mad enough to raise arms against either of them."

The abomination snorted from the other side of the table. "You can say that again. Isabela's been sending a constant stream of broken noses and bruised egos to my clinic since the day she blew into Kirkwall, and don't even get me started on the mess Hawke left behind last week when those coterie bastards tried to jump her in an ally. Some of the walls down there are still stained red."

"Their skill in a fight does nothing to change the fact that Hawke is still missing," Fenris said, his anxiety over the mage's absence and irritation at the assassin's presence finally besting the tenuous restraint he'd struggled to maintain over his tongue, "and neither would it help if she were attacked while alone or outnumbered."

"You give the woman far too little credit, my pessimistic friend. This is the Champion of Kirkwall you're talking about after all. Do you truly have such little faith in her abilities?" the Antivan said with a slow shake of his head, unfazed by the ire which flashed in Fenris' eyes.

"Possession of a title does not make someone invincible, Crow. Surly you've murdered enough dignitaries in your time to be aware of that."

"Such unwarranted hostility! It seems my initial assumptions were correct - your armor matches your personality perfectly! As sharp and cold on the inside as you are out, are you not?"

Fenris felt the ceramic of his mug begin to protest as he fought and nearly failed to keep the last threads of his self-control intact, a growl escaping his lips at the assassin's ribbing. The cad remained as unperturbed as ever in the face of his growing rage, returning the dangerous look he received with yet another wink which had the warrior seeing red.

"What I believe Fenris was trying to say," Sebastian said hastily, rushing to alleviate the growing tension between the two elves, "is that the chance of being overwhelmed while on your own is a threat for anyone, even someone as proficient in combat as Hawke."

"Precisely," Fenris said, his eyes no more than slits as he glowered at the assassin, who responded by giving a noncommittal shrug before picking up his glass to toss back the remainder of its contents.

"That's _it!_ I can't stand it any longer!" Merrill cried, her abrupt shout making everyone seated around the table jump. "If Hawke needs help we certainly aren't doing her any favors sitting here twiddling our thumbs! It's about time we actually _did_ something."

"Daisy," Varric said, completely taken aback by the normally meek elf's sudden determination, "In all honesty, I really don't think-"

"We've stalled long enough, Varric," she said, cutting off the dwarf with a scathing look, "Come with me or don't, but I can't sit here another minute not knowing if she and Isabela are alright, the waiting is driving me mad!"

Fenris stared at the blood mage in bewilderment as a hush fell over the room, all traces of his animosity for the Antivan temporarily overtaken by his surprise at Merrill's uncharacteristically bold behavior. She met his gaze unapologetically as she looked to each of the men in turn, her chest heaving and nostrils flared as though daring them to attempt to change her mind - something the warrior had no intention of doing. In spite of his fervent dislike of the witch, Fenris agreed whole-heartedly with her insistence. Two hours' worth of uncertainty and dread over Hawke's whereabouts were more than enough for a lifetime, let alone a single evening. It was high time they started looking for the damned mage themselves.

"All right Daisy, ok. You win," Varric said, breaking the silence with a resigned sigh and abandoning his earlier attempts of placating the girl. "Just give Hawke and Rivaini five more minutes. If they still haven't shown up by then, Bianca, the boys and I'll help you tear apart Kirkwall if that's really what you want."

"You will?" she asked hopefully as a wide smile spread over her face, her anger disappearing in the blink of an eye.

"'Course we will, _won't_ _we_ boys?" he asked the men pointedly, all of whom mumbled a quick agreement. "I'm not about to let you go wandering around back allies by yourself in the middle of the night, we'd just end up having to look for you too."

"So, a manhunt it shall be! How invigorating!" Zevran said excitedly as he turned to face Merrill. "But if we are to continue playing our game until it is time to leave, might I offer you a word of advice, my dear? The way you have your cards, you tilt them slightly to the left. You may wish to hold them up a bit more, unless it is your intention to allow others to see them. I am quite sure the healer has already been doing so all night."

"I most certainly have not!"

"Oh, I doubt it really matters," she said, frowning down at the pieces of paper clutched unevenly in her fingers. "I don't think I'm doing very well this round, anyway. None of my cards have any numbers on them, just a bunch of men with swords in silly hats and a couple with a big letter 'A'."

"And I believe that's my cue to fold," Varric said as he pushed his cards towards the center of the table, his gesture copied by the rest of the men.

"Wait, but I – didn't that -" she said, looking from one person to the next in complete confusion before throwing her hand to the tabletop in a huff. "Oh, by the Dread Wolf, I don't know why I even bother! I'll never be able to figure this blasted game out!"

"Look on the bright side, Merrill," Sebastian said with a grin as Varric slid the smaller-than-average pile of winnings towards the elf. "You've just made more coin in one round than I've seen Hawke win in four years."

"Or ever. I swear - with all the coin that girl's lost she could have bought the Viscount's keep three times over by now. You'd think she'd learn eventually."

"I suppose I could always stop playing if you're feeling guilty about lining your pockets with my coin, Varric," a new voice said from the entrance of the suite, its sound perking Fenris' ears and hitting him with an enormous wave of relief as well as indignation for the concern it's owner had laden him with.

"Hawke!" The witch cried, knocking her chair onto the floor in her rush to reach the mage. "Oh, thank the Creators you're alright!"

"I told you she thought you were dead," Isabela laughed as Fenris turned in his seat to be presented with the most absurd sight he had seen in some time. The malificar had thrown herself at Hawke in an enthusiastic greeting, and now clung to the woman's front like a squirrel to the side of a tree as she wittered on about how scared she had been for her safety. Hawke, looking staggered by her friend's grandiose showing of concern for her late arrival, peered back and forth from the top of the elf's head to Isabela, awkwardly patting the girl on the shoulder as she silently begged for the pirate's assistance.

"Come on now, Kitten, give the girl a chance to breathe. You don't want to strangle her after I went through all the trouble of tracking her down now, do you?"

"No, not at all! That would be terrible!" the witch said, horrified as she hastened to disentangle herself from the mage's waist. "I'm sorry, Lethallan, I was just so worried! It's wonderful to see that you're alright."

"It's fine, Merrill," Hawke said to her with a small smile, wincing slightly as she ran a hand along her ribs where she had been gripped tightest. "No lasting damage done in any case."

"Oh my, and don't you look pretty tonight, too!" the elf said, her hands clapping together as she stepped back, revealing the woman to the rest of the room.

No sooner had the witch moved than Fenris felt his eyes widen and his heart stutter through its next several beats, his first uninhibited glimpse of Hawke catching him completely off guard. The man could do little more than gape as any and all sense of good judgment he possessed in regards to the woman standing before him was scattered like leaves to the wind, it's defeat found in the pairing of her soft features with a set of flattering cotton breeches and a comely silk tunic. For a few brief, gloriously sinful moments, all reservations and determination were lost as he admired the way the crimson blouse hugged her like a well-fitting glove, the image stirring up long repressed but undeniably alluring memories of the body he knew was concealed beneath its fabric. Unbidden recollections flashed to the front of his mind as his gaze rose to the golden embroidery which decorated the garment's collar, its line begging for his attention as it plunged between the tops of her breasts. A jolt of desire shot throughout his body as he recalled how he had once been privileged enough to draw kisses along its very path, how the feel of her skin alone had nearly undone him, made his markings sing and -

_"No! No no no no! Venhedis, man, control yourself! Enough of this lunacy!"_ a venomous voice screamed in Fenris' ear, it's materialization shaking him free from his daze and dragging him back to the present. Potent anger rose like molten lead in the elf's chest, drowning out his traitorous reminiscences as he berated himself for his lapse of discipline.

_“Twice in one day,”_ he seethed, tearing his view away from the mage's distracting clothing and seeking refuge in the burn of sour ale. Twice in one Maker-forsaken day he had allowed his thoughts to wander down the same hazardous trail, the temptation of Hawke's magic, a hair ribbon and a blighted _shirt_ of all things too much for his willpower to endure. The muscles in Fenris' neck and jaw tightened as he attempted to conceal a frustrated snarl. Simple pieces of fabric should not be able to drive him to such idiocy.

The idea that he could be so easily overcome was infuriating. He knew better than this. Permitting himself to relive these memories of the mage was reckless, dangerous, foolish. Brief instances of nothing more than selfish indulgence which never failed to deepen the already numerous cracks in the walls he had built to keep her out. If he were to continue on like this, turning a blind eye to his desire to cling to the shadows of what they once had and the weakness it provoked in him, it would only be a matter of time before those same barricades crumbled to dust at his feet. Should that happen, should all traces of the carefully maintained distance he had forced between them be abandoned, the results would lead to nothing short of disaster for himself and unavoidable pain for Hawke. Was her well-being truly worth so little to him that he would risk harming her further all for the sake of his own gratification?

An anguished pang cut like ice through the heart of Fenris' anger, cooling and replacing his irritation with shame, the thought that he could consider doing such a thing for even a moment making his stomach clench into knots. No. No he would not. He had done, and would continue to do, enough damage as it was. He would not be so cruel as to intentionally open her old wounds, most of which he knew had yet to properly heal, only to end up rubbing salt into them.

"Not that you don't normally, of course. I think your robes are lovely," the witch said, her witless chattering enough to banish the last of Fenris' distracted thoughts. "They remind me of the old quilts the clan would line the bottoms of our aravels with in the winter."

"Er - thanks Merrill. I think," Hawke said, reaching up to weave her fingers into the ends of her braided hair while Isabela snorted into a clenched fist behind her. A light blush bloomed across the mage's cheeks as she began to notice the gawking her unconventional choice of clothing had inspired in her other friends, her apprehension making plain just how uncomfortable she felt under their scrutiny.

The dwarf's and Chantry brother's responses were admittedly innocent enough. Varric met the sight with an arched brow before shooting a questioning glance over Hawke's shoulder towards Isabela, who gave a cheerful smile in response. Rather than press the pirate for an explanation, which he was no doubt itching to receive, the man simply sighed as he shook his head before turning to speak to the blood mage, a faint "What did I tell you, Daisy?" reaching Fenris' ears from their side of the table. Sebastian had taken all of one look at the woman before his entire face had flushed a beetroot red, his eyes darting away as he quickly busied himself collecting and shuffling the deck of cards for the next round of their game.

The abomination on the other hand had seemingly lost the ability to find interest in anything _but_ Hawke, his face fixed in a wide-eyed, slack-jawed stare which was only broken when the tankard he'd left hovering halfway to his mouth tilted forward enough to splash a generous portion of its contents into his lap. Fenris watched in amusement as the mage cursed and batted at his soiled robes, the beginnings of a vindictive smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, though it quickly withered away to be replaced by yet another sneer as he caught sight of the man at the abomination's left.

"I am afraid I must disagree with you, Merrill. 'Pretty' just seems to be far too... insufficient a word, no?" the assassin said, the hungry look in his eyes as he leered at Hawke acting as the catalyst to Fenris' aggravation while he chose to ignore the small voice in his head which whispered accusations of hypocrisy. "Bah, but the Common tongue is so dreadfully limited in these matters! Antivan is far better suited for such purposes. _Sembri molto bella, mia cara. S_ imply _incantevali_."

"I thought we'd already covered this once today, Zevran," Hawke said, her arms crossing over her chest as she cocked a brow at the elf's words, though Fenris was surprised to see a small smile break through the nervousness which lingered. "Blatant flattery doesn't work on me, particularly when I can't even understand it."

"Always so hesitant to accept a compliment when given! My friend, you truly are the most humble person I have ever had the pleasure to meet. An undeserved trait, I might add."

"So, Hawke," Varric said with shameless curiosity, thankfully pulling the mage's attention from the Crow's smarmy compliments, "inquiring minds want to know. What kept you so damn long? Bandits? Coterie? Your steward's boy get himself tangled up in the chandelier again?"

"Nothing quite so interesting, I'm afraid," Isabela cut in as she sauntered over to claim the empty seat next to the Antivan. "I found her passed out naked as a jay bird in the bath, snoring so loud she was shaking the windows."

"That's a lie and you know it, 'Bela," Hawke said, glaring daggers at the pirate while Fenris tried in vain not to picture the revealing circumstances of her discovery. "I most certainly was _not_ snoring. I _never_ snore."

"Hawke, if you'd have been any louder, dogs would've been joining in from out in the streets. Honestly, I don't know how your staff sleeps in that house, I could hear you clear as day in your foyer."

"No Aveline or Donnic tonight, then?" Hawke asked the group with a slightly raised voice, pointedly ignoring her friend's teasing, "Were they on the roster for rounds?"

"Er, no, not quite," Sebastian answered, his already flushed face turning another shade darker as he began dealing out the cards. "I stopped by their home earlier this afternoon to see if they were planning on joining us. Apparently today's their anniversary. Aveline said they would be 'regretfully indisposed' for the evening."

"Ah! So the Captain's letting her guardsman patrol her back alley! Don't stop there, Sebastian! Did she say anything else? Any other delectable little snippets I can harass her with later?"

"She thought you might say something like that," the chantry brother said, looking up to the pirate with a mixture of discomfort and diversion, "and she wanted me to 'tell that slattern to mind her own Maker-forsaken business for once.'"

"That's my girl," Isabela smiled as she leaned back in her chair, "as much of a dull prig as always."

"As entertaining as speculating on what goes on in Aveline's bedchamber is," the dwarf said, the disturbed look on his face indicating he felt differently. "Do you think we could get back to the game? I'm still a sovereign short for that tin of polish I promised Bianca."

"Well, we can't have that now, can we?" Hawke said, finally moving from her place halfway between the doorway and the table towards a free chair. "Go ahead and deal me in, Sebastian."

It was not until he heard the loud scraping of wooden legs on floorboards and felt the lyrium in his skin begin to tingle that Fenris realized the last unoccupied seat was the one placed directly to his left. Panic set in as he glanced towards the woman out of the corner of his eye only to see, much to his vexation, Hawke settle herself into the chair, a hint of firmness in her expression as she pulled herself closer to the table. The movement caused her elbow to brush against his own, sending the elf's head instantly reeling as a jolt of her magic pulsed throughout his body. Fenris froze like a granite statue, the inside of his lip caught painfully between his teeth as he struggled to rein in the unwanted visions the sensation revived - a task which was only made more difficult when Hawke saw fit to toss her hair over her shoulder, sending a waft of almond and sandalwood to caress his nose and further tempt him.

_"Festis bei umo canavarum, Hawke,"_ he muttered silently, noticing with a stoking of his ire that the damned assassin had reinstated his earlier practice of drawing his eyes up and down the length of the mage's body, his gaze unfaltering and unapologetic.

The smallest sound of creaking glass reached Fenris' ear as his mug finally began to crack under the pressure of his grip. Maker, this was going to be a long night.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

" _So much for the hostility-free evening I was hoping for,"_ Hawke thought miserably as she pulled her chair closer to the table, her arm brushing against Fenris' in the process. Tension broke and radiated off the elf like heat from a furnace at the contact, his mouth twisting into a glower which the mage did her best to ignore, despite the old ache it stirred in her chest.

Irritation at her own stupidity quickly rose to stomp down on it, her teeth gritting together in the hope that it would prevent any melancholy from showing on her face. There was no one to blame for her disappointment but herself. The man's surliness was far from surprising behavior – to expect anything different out of him was as asinine an idea as trusting Gamlen with your coin purse in the middle of the Blooming Rose. Looking back, she knew now that it had been pure foolishness on her part to even consider - let alone hold on to - the idea that Fenris' would be one of the heads Isabela had insisted she would be turning tonight. The notion was nothing more than another example of the same infatuated folly she had been so determined to be done with not six hours ago.

 _"Easier said than done I suppose,"_ she said to herself with a derisive snort behind the cards Sebastian dealt her, all whilst trying not to notice how the elf stiffened when she moved to toss her braid over a shoulder.

Hawke was relieved when the normal clamor of conversation, clinking glasses, and chinking coin picked back up without further preamble. She gratefully accepted a flagon offered to her by Varric, thankful for the distraction it would afford her despite the fact that she would now be expected to drink the brew it contained. The mage made to raise the mug to her lips, grimacing in preparation for the ale's infamously horrendous aftertaste, when she noticed a pair of keen, honey-colored eyes watching her from across the table.

Zevran was casting her an undeniably appreciative gaze, the quirk of his lip and brow as he looked at her pulling at the lines of his tattoos in a way which only accentuated the sharp features of his face. The assassin's focus did not falter or fall away upon his discovery - instead he met Hawke's perplexed stare with a coy smirk and the slightest of nods which had her stomach doing somersaults in a matter of seconds.

 _"Well, at least someone's enjoying watching me make a fool out of myself,"_  she thought as she returned the elf's smile with a sheepish grin. A flush of heat began working its way up her neck and onto her cheeks as she reluctantly returned her attention to the game at hand, far too flustered by the Antivan's latest bout of attentions to take any notice of the growl coming from the man beside her.

The next few rounds of cards passed by without much significance, save for the rapidly decreasing weight of Hawke's purse and a spilled tray of drinks - the latter being the end result of Sebastian's attempt to excuse himself to the privy at the same time Norah had come through the door with their order. Varric and Isabela spent a good deal of time bemoaning the low going rates of the items they had pilfered from the Crows' camp, all while their respective piles of silvers and sovereigns steadily grew to tower above the rest of the group's. Merrill proved unusually quiet, contributing only passively to the surrounding chatter in the brief moments her eyes weren't locked in concentration on her hand of cards, apparently determined not to allow herself a second costly slip-up like the one she had already made.

Much the same as the Dalish girl but far less surprisingly, Fenris remained utterly still and silent, unmoving to the point that Hawke would have sworn the elf had been turned to stone if not for the occasional glare she saw him toss across the table at Zevran. The Antivan took the warrior's animosity in admirably easy stride, meeting each scowl with an air of nonchalance which only seemed to irritate the warrior further if the way his sneer continued to deepen was any indication.

Anders spent the majority of his time speaking amicably with Hawke, the topic of choice eventually falling to ingredients she had offered to help collect for a potion which, with any luck, would sever the ties binding him to Justice once and for all. While she had initially been skeptical as to just how likely the ritual was to succeed - as well as wary of the fact that they were actually considering the use of magic developed by Tevinter magisters – Anders' enthusiasm for their task along with the return of some of his cheerful demeanor had been enough to leave Hawke feeling optimistic. Even if their attempts were to eventually be proven futile, she would be content with this reassurance that the man she had originally befriended was still present beneath the spirit's influence.

"I've gone ahead and stored the Sela Petrae in the closet at the back of the clinic, but the smell still seeps out into the main room whenever someone opens the front door and lets a draft in. I have to say, it's not exactly the most pleasant of aromas to work around," Anders said, his nose wrinkling in disgust at the memory.

"You're telling me," Hawke said as she tossed her last sovereign into the pot. "Orana had to burn the clothes I wore after trying everything short of beating them with rocks. Why I thought floor length robes were a good idea that day, I'll never know."

"Not one of your better decisions, no. Anyway, it would be best to have the Drakestone ready by the end of this week if possible. The mixture will take at least a fortnight to ferment properly. Possibly longer depending on how well the other ingredients react to one another, so I'd like to get everything underway sooner rather than later."

"So long as I don't have to go traipsing through sewage to find it for you, I'm all for it."

"No, no cesspits this time. Drakestone builds up in mines and caverns."

"Well that's perfect, then. I needed to check up on the men at the Bone Pit anyway, make sure Hubert hasn't been falling back on old business practices. I can find some for you when I go."

"You're sure you don't mind looking for it by yourself?" the mage asked, sounding unexpectedly concerned. "I'm more than happy to help. This is for my benefit, after all."

"No, don't worry about it, Anders. It's not like I'll be going out of my way. Besides, you've got a clinic to run, remember? I don't think the poor sod who comes in with a severed limb will want to wait while you go off on a scavenger hunt."

"Alright ladies, gentlemen and scoundrels," Varric said loudly as he fanned his cards out in front of him, "time to show 'em!"

There was a rustling of paper and bodies as the rest of the group revealed their hands, followed shortly by a collective groan which rippled around the table at the sight of Isabela's third winning set in a row.

"How is it that you always win?" Merrill asked sadly, watching as the last of the few coins she had gained earlier were swept up to join the rest of the Rivaini's winnings.

"Practice, a bit of luck and skill, Kitten," the pirate said with a wink as she patted the elf lovingly on the cheek.

"And by skill you mean the half deck's worth of cards you have hidden down your bodice, I assume," Sebastian said hotly before taking a swig from his flagon.

Isabela smirked, her tone dropping to a teasing purr as she leaned against the table, cleavage prominently displayed in the Chantry brother's direction. "I never realized you paid that much attention to my tits, Sebastian! Care to take a guess at where else I have them stashed? I'll even let you collect them yourself if you get it right."

"So, Zevran," Hawke said hurriedly, raising her voice above the sound of Sebastian choking on his mouthful of ale, "'Bela mentioned on the way here that you spent quite a bit of time traveling with Grey Wardens a few years back."

"Ah yes, an interesting time in my life to say the least," the Antivan said as he leaned into the arm of his chair, a thoughtful look passing across his face. "Then again, I am quite certain there was little chance of it being anything  _but_. That was simply the sort of woman Aerin was. Witty, exciting, brave, deadly - all combined with a terrible habit of attracting the worst sorts of attention at the most inconvenient of times. Traits I find you share quite closely with her, Hawke, if I may be so bold."

"Well, you got the 'walking around with a giant bullseye on her back' part right," Varric said with a laugh, unrepentant in the face of the frown Hawke shot him. "What? You know it's true. How many times have we had some would-be gang of thugs try to jump us from a rooftop just in the past month? It's like they fall out of the sky whenever you're around. Even I couldn't make that sound believable."

"Hold on a moment. Did you say her name was Aerin?" Anders asked, recognition dawning in the man's face. "You wouldn't happen to mean Aerin Tabris?"

"The very same, in fact."

"That means you're  _that_ Antivan, aren't you? The one who helped stop the Blight. I knew your name sounded familiar - I heard all about you when I was still with the order in Amaranthine."

Zevran smiled as he shifted in his seat, the room's candlelight catching on the buckles of his armor. "It seems my reputation precedes me. Though I must confess, whatever you have heard is most likely wild exaggeration. The part I played in our little adventure was a small one at best."

"Not according to Tabris. She told us stories about you constantly. I've heard the one about how you broke her out of Fort Drakon so many times I could recite it in my sleep. You'd think you were the Maker himself the way she carried on."

Zevran's reaction to the mage's words was slight, a nearly imperceptible change in his expression which Hawke was certain had gone unnoticed by the others at the table. In truth, it would have most likely been overlooked by her as well, had she not already witnessed a similar occurrence during their shared rest along the seacoast. For the second time that day the assassin's sleek countenance faltered, slipping just enough for her to see something akin to elation flash in his eyes before it was hidden away behind his usual smirk.

"Is that so?" he asked, his tone one of only mild interest and betraying none of the emotion Hawke had glimpsed as he reached for a bottle of dark liquor stashed below his chair. There was a small pop followed by the clink of glass against glass as he uncorked and poured himself a measure, taking a small sip as he continued. "I would imagine she spoke of her fellow Grey Warden just as frequently, yes?"

"You mean Theirin? Not all that much actually, no," Anders said with a shrug, making the feathers of his pauldrons quiver. "She mentioned him in passing a few times, but never really said anything significant. To tell the truth, I don't think she liked being reminded of him. From what I heard the two of them had quite the falling out when he left the order to take over Cailan's place on the throne."

"Truly?" the Antivan asked in surprise, his question tinged with something which sounded oddly enough like satisfaction, though its presence did not last. "That is a most terrible shame. She and Alistair had become rather... fond of one another during our journeys."

Their conversation about the Warden-Commander carried on for some time, it's longevity fueled in equal measure by Anders' history with the woman and the others' interest in learning more about the Hero of Ferelden, Varric going so far as to pull out parchment, quill and ink to jot down notes. Fenris was, of course, the exception to the rule, his stony silence broken only by the occasional grumble when their discussion continued to persist well past the final few rounds of Diamondback. Why he refused to simply excuse himself for the evening remained a mystery to Hawke, who was becoming more and more irritated by the elf's grousing as the night wore on, though she chose to remain mum on the subject. Far be it from her to show concern over his decision to wallow in self-inflicted misery.

"You never did say where you were headed after Kirkwall, Zev," Isabela said some time later as she threw back the last swallow of ale in her mug. "Planning on sticking around for a bit?"

"For a short while, yes. I was able to book passage on a ship leaving for Gwaren in a week's time. I will not be wandering far until then."

"I think Corff has a room open down the hall if you haven't gotten yourself one yet," Varric said as he bent to scoop up his winnings into his coin purse, its strained stitching looking as though it were ready to burst. "Not the classiest place you'll find, but it's cheap, the doors lock and the bedding's clean. Well, most of the time anyway, so long as Norah's in a good mood."

"Or there's always the Rose," Isabela said with a devious smile. "Madam Lusine can be a hard-ass, but the rest of the staff is just marvelous. Not to mention willing to try just about anything you throw at them if you've got the coin to back it up."

"Both tempting suggestions, I assure you," Zevran said with a chuckle. "Though I am afraid it would be most unwise for me to choose such, shall we say, conventional lodgings while in the city, what with the Crows being so close by."

"Er, correct me if I'm wrong here," Hawke said, meeting the elf's gaze, "but didn't we already handle that little problem this afternoon? I'm no expert or anything, but I think it's safe to say those corpses we left behind aren't going to be getting back up any time in the near future."

"Nor do I, my delightfully sarcastic friend," Zevran said, grinning in the face of her confusion, "but I more than suspect the men we encountered this afternoon were not the only ones assigned to my trail."

"There are  _more_ of them?" she asked incredulously, eyes widening. "Andraste's ass, just how many men did they think it would take to kill you?"

"Enough to provide me with a significant boost to my ego, that is for certain."

"How many do you think are left? Another camp's worth?"

"Not nearly so many, no. Too much risk of exposure and potential lost coin if they were discovered or killed for the Crows' liking. It is most likely that there is only a single man left, an assassin given orders to report Nuncio's success or to finish the job should he fail, which he has done so spectacularly."

Hawke nodded in understanding. "And what better way to do that than wait for you to pass out in a tavern."

"Precisely."

"But then where will you stay until your ship leaves?" Merrill asked, concerned. "The Alienage maybe, or Darktown?"

"Not a good idea, Daisy," Varric said gravely. "Too many people desperate for coin. If Pretty Boy's right and he does have another assassin on his tail, it would take them all of ten minutes and two silvers to find him."

"An unfortunate truth, I'm afraid," Zevran said placidly. "Perhaps even less, depending on who the Crows have sent. Some of my former associates can be quite persuasive in one way or another. No, I think my best chance is to make camp outside of the city."

"Well that's silly," Merrill said, her brows pulling together. "You shouldn't be alone if there's someone coming after you."

"Your concern is much appreciated, but I am more than capable of defending myself against a single man. The Planasene Forest is not far from here, yes? I can seek shelter there."

"For a week, though? What would you do when you need to sleep and couldn't keep watch? It's not like you can nap in a tree, you'd fall out. "

"Kitten has a point, Zev," Isabela said from behind her refilled flagon. "You're good, but not that good."

"What other option do I have? Returning to Sundermount is out of the question. I am no coward, but it would be foolish to tempt fate with the camp so close by. It will be the first place their man searches. I go there, and I may as well take ship for Antiva and present myself to the Masters on a silver platter."

"You could stay with one of us," Merrill said, looking across the table to meet Sebastian's gaze. "He could go to the Chantry with you, couldn't he? There's all sorts of extra room there."

Sebastian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I, er, don't think Grand Cleric Elthina would approve of such an – unorthodox guest. No offense meant, Zevran."

"None taken," the Antivan said, waving off the apology. "It would be a poor priest who willingly allowed a Crow amongst their flock, reformed or otherwise."

"Well, what about Hawke's?"

The sound of breaking ceramic shot through the room, pulling everyone's focus from the conversation to the puddle of ale slowly forming under the cracked mug in Fenris' hand.

"Absolutely  _not_ ," he said tersely, too busy shooting daggers across the table at the Dalish girl to notice the attention he had gained.

"Why not?" Merrill asked, untroubled by the warrior's glare. "He can't stay by himself, and it would be too easy for that assassin to find him if he went with any of the rest of us."

"So your suggestion is to have Hawke board a known murderer at the risk of luring another into her estate? I was aware you were dim-witted, witch, but this level of idiocy is remarkable even by your standards."

"Now that was just uncalled for, Broody. Daisy's just trying to help. I don't see you making any suggestions."

Fenris' expression shifted from livid to incredulous in seconds. "You honestly think this a good idea, dwarf?"

Varric smirked, his hands steepling together as he rested his elbows on the tabletop. "Sure I do. The elf gets a place to stay, Hawke gets some use out of that empty mausoleum she calls a house, and we get an extra pair of daggers to work with. Fair trade for a week's worth of lodging, right, Pretty Boy?"

"Of course, I would be more than willing to earn my keep," Zevran said sincerely to the dwarf before turning to Hawke. "Though I would not wish to impose upon you further, my friend, or appear ungrateful for the help you have already given. You have been more than hospitable as it stands."

"Well, I... Er, that is -" she stuttered, stumbling through her words in the face of her sudden predicament, the pair of amber eyes watching her doing nothing to help her think rationally. "Maker's Breath, Zevran, talk about putting a girl on the spot."

"You are actually considering this?" Fenris asked heatedly, his eyes narrowing as he turned his anger on her. "You cannot possibly be serious."

"So what if I am?" she asked, bristling under the elf's criticism. "Last I knew it wasn't your job to dictate who I can and can't invite into my own home, Fenris."

"Well, whatever your decision is, make it quick," Varric said impatiently with a glance towards the clock resting on his mantelpiece. "I should have kicked the lot of you out over an hour ago. Bianca gets cranky when she hasn't gotten enough beauty sleep."

"Then what say you, Hawke?" Zevran asked, voice lowering as he tilted his head to one side. "Will you have me?"

Hawke felt a pulse of heat thrum in the pit of her stomach, her train of thought stalling at the double entendre she could have sworn she had heard in his question. She glanced down into the bottom of her mug, still half full with her first serving of ale, finding it difficult to consider the Antivan's request with a clear head while she knew his eyes were still trained on her.

Her initial instinct was to refuse, if only for the sake of the absolute fit her mother would have thrown if she were to know her daughter would even consider such an arrangement. A vision of Leandra standing in her estate's foyer formed in her head, the woman's expression caught somewhere between piqued annoyance and resignation as she rubbed at her temples.

_"First a slave girl, and now an elven assassin? Maker above, Marian, what will the neighbors say?"_

Hawke snorted quietly at the image, her amusement bittersweet as she reminded herself that her mother was no longer there to chastise her poor choices in companions and the damage they were no doubt doing to her reputation. Not that she'd had much good standing in Hightown society to preserve to begin with. Her status as a begrudgingly tolerated apostate had already cemented her condemnation to the bottommost rungs of the social ladder, after all. Whatever harm an unconventional house guest could do no doubt paled in comparison to what she had done simply by existing. The fact also remained that Varric's comparison of her home to a tomb, while meant in harmless jest, couldn't have been more accurate. The Hawke estate, once anticipated to be the new beginning for which her family had fought and bled, instead stood empty and lifeless, a testament to failures she was not yet ready to forgive herself for. A shiver shot down her spine at the thought, memories of unsettling echos and cold stone walls from just that afternoon enough to drain the suite of its warmth. She had to admit, the prospect of having someone else to keep her company, even if only for a short time, was a tempting suggestion. Of course, the fact that the potential guest in question happened to be an affable, handsome, and exceptionally charming man did not hurt his chances in the least.

Hawke sighed, looking up from her tankard and to the Antivan, too distracted by her certainty that she was soon to either applaud or deeply regret what she was about to do to notice how stiff the elf at her side had become.

"Oh, sod it. All right Zevran, if you're willing to give us a hand with some jobs around the city and you promise not to rob me blind while my back is turned, you've got yourself a place to stay."

"Your generosity will never cease to amaze me, Hawke," the man said with a smile, his eyes closing as he bowed his head to her. "You have my utmost gratitude. I will repay you for this, I swear it."

"Yeah, yeah, okay," Varric said as he stood from his seat at the head of the table and stretched. "We're all happy you're not going to be sleeping out in the woods, Pretty Boy. Now go home, the lot of you. This dwarf has a night cap and a bed with his name on it waiting for him."

There was a clamor of dragged chairs, shuffling bodies and final pleasantries as the rest of the group pulled themselves from the table and to their feet. Anders, Sebastian and Merrill were the first to depart, the Chantry brother offering to escort the elf back to the Alienage before making his way to Hightown.

"Let me know when you're heading off to the Bone Pit, Hawke," Anders said, leaning back into the room as he was halfway out the door. "I should at least give you a sketch of what to look for."

"Will do," she said with a nod which was quickly returned to her before the mage slipped out of the doorway, the sound of his feet on the stairs swallowed up by the noise drifting up from the bar below.

Isabela soon made for the exit as well, looking over a shoulder with her hand wrapped around the doorknob and one brow reaching into her hairline.

"Well come on then, Zev," she said, her tone holding the slightest note of agitation as she jerked her head towards the hall. "You left your pack in my room,  _remember_?"

"Oh – yes. Yes, of course," the Antivan said shortly, stooping to pick up his bottle of liquor before looking to Hawke once more. "Apologies, my friend. I will be but a moment, then we may be on our way."

"Will you move your ass?" the pirate asked impatiently, tapping her toes against the floorboards as her hand went to her hip. "If I hurry I might still be able to wring a few drinks from the lushes downstairs before they're too soused to find their coin purses."

Zevran quickly crossed the suite to leave with Isabela hot on his heels, the pirate going so far as to push him out of the room when he failed to move fast enough for her liking, the door left swinging in their wake as they went.

* * *

"You are, without a doubt, the most devious, conniving,  _brilliant_ man I have ever known," Isabela said through a wide smile, pushing the door to her room closed with her hip.

Zevran chuckled as he leaned himself against the foot board of her unmade bed, legs crossing at his ankles. "Please, do continue. You've yet to mention my dashing good looks or how proficient a lover I am."

"I can't believe how well that went," the pirate said happily, still grinning from ear to ear as she moved to collect the elf's pack from underneath her window. "Leave it to Merrill to play right into it without knowing. I swear, I could kiss that girl. In fact, I think I just might. And you! That bit about the assassin? Bloody  _perfect_. You had everyone eating out of your hand."

"Bit?" the Antivan asked, easily catching his pack when Isabela tossed it to him across the room.

"The whole act! Hawke never stood a chance," she said excitedly, crossing to her disused desk and hoisting herself up onto it, sending an empty rum bottle crashing to the floor in the process. "I wish I'd known you were planning on using the 'I have no place to go that's safe, they're going to kill me' story. I could have helped sell it better if I'd had some extra time to mull it over."

"Isabela," Zevran said as he pushed himself off of the bed frame and set his pack onto the mattress, "you do realize, I hope, that I was not simply telling tales to sway your Hawke's decision, yes?"

"What do you mean?"

"I did not lie when I said the Crows will have set another assassin on my trail," he said bluntly, calmly, as though he were commenting on nothing more pressing than the weather. "The masters do so quite frequently, in fact. For targets whose removal have been deemed of great financial or political importance. An extra precaution to ensure the job is completed should those originally given the contract fail, which our dearly departed Nuncio has."

"But only the one?" she asked, her high spirits undaunted by the Antivan's revelation. "That hardly seems like much of a threat, particularly after they sent a damned legion's worth the first time."

"True, though their reasoning was valid. A group so large is powerful, perfect for an ambush when their target is unaware and unsuspecting, but completely worthless once they have revealed themselves to the mark. After all, it is far easier for a person to flee their hunters when they are bogged down by supplies and sheer numbers. A single assassin, on the other hand, is quick, silent, able to follow the target without being discovered. Particularly when they have remained on their own."

"Which is what they expected you to do."

"I would assume so, yes," Zevran said, bending over his bag as he carefully tucked his bottle of liquor into its depths, nestling it into a pair of spare breeches. "But seeing as I have been fortunate enough to find asylum amongst your friends, I very much doubt we will be given any trouble. Whoever it is that they have sent for me will not be so foolish as to make an attempt on our group while working alone, and by the time an opportunity presents itself to them, I'll have taken ship and will be half way to Gwaren."

"Well, that just ruins all the fun, doesn't it?" Isabela asked in mock dejection, pouting as she picked at a spot on her chin. "Here I was getting all excited for the chance to gut the bastard when he popped up around a corner. What a let down, Zev."

"I am terribly sorry to have disappointed you, then," the Antivan said with a chuckle as he tied the fastenings of his pack closed. Once satisfied with the strength of the knots, he turned to face the pirate, hands clasping together as a new grin slid into place on his mouth. "Now, if I am not mistaken, we have more pressing matters at hand. Tell me, my dear 'Bela, what is our next step in this delightful scheme of yours?"

"You just keep doing exactly what you're doing now," the pirate said, pushing herself from off of her perch and opening one of its drawers to rummage through it. "At this rate it's only a matter of time before Fenris snaps, takes Hawke 'round the waist and steals her away to the first vacant bush he can find. Either that or he'll try to murder you, but I'm more inclined to think he'd choose the first option."

"And if our morose friend does not play into his role as is expected in the time that we have available?"

"Then you bend that girl over a table and give her something to remember you by, one of your 'Antivan massages' or whatever it is you call it. I'll be damned if Hawke doesn't get at least a good lay out of all this - she's been as barren as the Anderfels for far too long. Ah-ha! Found you, you little blighter!"

Isabela whipped around from the desk, grinning triumphantly with a small parcel wrapped in white paper clutched in her fingers.

"Here, take this," she said, shoving the packet into Zevran's hand. "It'll come in handy when you get to Hawke's. Trust me."

The elf glanced down at the item curiously, pulling the string holding the paper in place loose and shifting it to the side with his thumb.

"Dried meat?" he asked quizzically, looking up from the package to meet the pirate's self-satisfied smile in puzzlement.

"For Sampson," she explained as she started back for the doorway. "We need you on his good side if this whole boarding house set up is going to work. That there should be more than enough for you to win him over. He absolutely  _loves_ the stuff."

"You neglected to mention Hawke had others living with her," Zevran said as he made to follow her, stopping long enough to take up his pack and slide the jerky into a pocket of his breeches. "This Sampson, he is a family member of hers? A brother, perhaps?"

"Not quite, but you'll find out soon enough," Isabela said with a wink, not bothering to wait for any more of the elf's questions before throwing the door open to step out into the hall.

* * *

No sooner had the pirate and her companion crossed the threshold of the room than Fenris had turned on Hawke, his face contorted into a scowl which put his usual glower to shame.

"I'd avoid going into any larders looking like that if I were you," she said teasingly, though her words were not lacking a sharpened edge. "With a face like that you'd probably end up curdling the milk."

"May I have a word?" he asked, the way his eyes narrowed making it clear she had no option of refusal.

"I'm standing right here, aren't I? Say what you have to say."

"In private _,_ " he said curtly, looking over the top of her shoulder at Varric.

"Oh no, Broody, not happening," the dwarf said firmly, swiping through the air with a flattened hand. "The day I'm kicked out of my own room to miss potential story material is the day I kiss a genlock on the mouth. You want privacy, take it into the hallway."

"Co-operative as ever, dwarf," Fenris grumbled to himself as he turned in place, not bothering to wait for Hawke to follow as he marched out of the room. The mage sighed as she watched him slam the door back into place with an earsplitting  _bang_ , pinching the bridge of her nose in anticipation of the headache she knew was soon to come.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow at some point, Varric," she said as she squared her shoulders, steadying herself for whatever onslaught Fenris had in store for her as she made for the door.

"Goodnight, Hawke. You know where to find me if Broody tries to turn Pretty Boy into a hand-puppet."

Hawke stepped out of the room and into the hall, the sound of muffled laughter and slurred singing from downstairs reaching her as she closed the door behind her. She glanced to her right towards Isabela's room, finding Fenris no more than ten paces down the corridor with his arms folded and glower still firmly in place.

"Have you truly lost what little common sense you possessed, or are you simply suicidal?" he asked shortly as she came to a stop in front of him, somehow managing to look down his nose at her despite their negligible difference in height.

"Since when is offering someone a place to stay grounds for questioning a person's sanity?" she asked unblinkingly, meeting the elf's vitriol with practiced calm despite the sting of his insult.

"Since you seem to be incapable of understanding the danger you are placing both yourself and those you travel with in by allowing this."

Hawke gave a short, harsh laugh, her arms crossing over her chest to mirror his stance. "In danger of what, exactly? Pleasant conversation and excessive flattery? The horror!"

Fenris' nose wrinkled as his lip raised into a sneer. "I fail to find any humor in your willingness to invite an assassin into your home."

" _Former_ assassin, thank you very much. I do have some level of discretion."

"As though that makes a difference. The man is a murderer - admits to it gladly - and you would still welcome him among us like an honored guest."

"I hardly think that you of all people have any room to criticize his history," she said flatly, careful to keep her voice as far away from accusatory as possible, least she turn this relatively civil disagreement into an all-out war. "Or any of us, for that matter. Every single person in this dysfunctional little group is a killer, willing or otherwise. Who are we to judge what he's done?"

"There is a difference between killing out of necessity and unadulterated slaughter," he said pointedly, dark brows pulling together over his nose. "The Antivan is a sociopath – a wanted man with a price on his head. Even if he does manage to keep his blades sheathed and not bury them in your back, I am certain whatever assassin the Crows have sent for him would grant you no such courtesy if they found you in their way."

"So what would you have me do, Fenris? Turn a blind eye and leave him to his fate? We'd find him dead in an alley by sunrise."

"It is not your responsibility to protect that cretin from those who hunt him, Hawke."

"You're right. It isn't," Hawke said with frustration, the blunt edges of her fingernails digging into her biceps as her grip tightened. "Just like it wasn't my responsibility to help when it was you in his place."

Fenris reeled as though she had struck him across the face, his eyes flashing with something she would have called hurt if it weren't for the black look which accompanied it. Strained silence fell between them, the elf appearing as though he were torn between wanting to scream at her and storming off in a rage. After several long moments of narrow-eyed scrutiny passed, the man finally shifted in place, the corners of his mouth pulled down into the same frown she was half convinced had become a permanent feature of his face as of late.

" _A real shame, that,_ " she thought solemnly, her gaze straying to his lips before she could gather enough sense to stop herself.  _"He always looked so handsome when he smiled."_

"Our - circumstances - are nothing alike," he growled through clenched teeth, visibly struggling to keep hold of his anger.

"No, they really are," she said, eyes closing as she shook her head before finding his once more. "Zevran has just as much control in all this mess as you do with Danarius. I helped you back then because it was the right thing to do, and I'll do it again in a heartbeat if need be because -

–  _because losing you to him would kill me –_

\- because I consider you a friend, whether you accept that fact or not. And I'm sorry, Fenris, but I won't stand idly by now either, not when there's something I can do. Consequences be damned, I  _will not_ have Zevran's blood on my hands, indirectly or otherwise. The two of you will just have to play nice for a few days."

The elf's mouth fell open, his lips forming the first syllables of what was sure to be another protest when a door down the hall was thrown open, banging against the opposite wall hard enough to send several splinters skittering across the floor. Hawke's attention snapped to the commotion in time to see Isabela saunter out of the room, Zevran following close behind with a well-worn pack draped lazily over one shoulder.

"Ready to get going?" she asked him quickly, eager for the chance to avoid further arguments with Fenris, whose expression had turned putrid at the Antivan's arrival.

Zevran nodded in agreement, gesturing down the stairwell with an extended hand.  _"_ I follow your lead, Hawke."

"Right then. Good-night, Fenris," she said without looking to him, arms falling to her sides as she turned to make her way down the staircase, the farewell earning her a short  _humph_ in return.

Isabela caught up to her at the first step, linking their arms together to chat excitedly about the new jewelry she planned to buy with her evening's winnings before disentangling herself when they reached the bar. The pirate waved a hurried good-bye as she plopped herself in the lap of a half-conscious dock worker, one hand snaking suspiciously low around the suddenly attentive man's waist while a sultry "How'd you like to buy a girl a drink, Sweetness?" floated across the room.

Hawke paused at the front door to the tavern, one hand resting on the frame as she turned to find Zevran only halfway between the staircase and the entrance, his progress through the crowd most likely hindered by the bundle on his back. A warm smile pulled at the edges of his tattoos as he came to stand beside her, all white teeth and full lips. She returned it with a feeble grin of her own, her heart pounding itself against her ribs as she took in the way his copper skin glowed in the candlelight from the room's sconces.

" _Andraste's flaming ass, what are you getting yourself into this time, Marian?_ "

"Well," she said out loud, voice cracking as heat began to work its way up from the base of her throat, "this should be interesting, don't you think?"

"Indeed I do, my friend," he said, still smirking as he placed his hand on the rusted handle, holding the door open to her. "Indeed I do."

With Hawke's face now thoroughly burning they took their leave of the Hanged Man, unaware of green eyes following them as they disappeared into the night.

* * *

Fenris watched Hawke and the pirate slip down the stairwell and into the bar room with fists balling, fighting against the urge to chase after her for what he knew would be a fruitless attempt to make the fool mage see reason. Beside him the Antivan shifted in place, pushing his pack higher onto his back before turning to look at him, the same egotistical smirk he had worn all evening still plastered across his face.

"Well," he said, the sound of poorly masked mirth in his voice making a muscle in Fenris' jaw twitch. "I suppose this is farewell for now, my friend. I am certain we will be seeing each other again soon, yes?"

The warrior said nothing in response to the elf's question, forcing himself to focus instead on Hawke's slow disappearance into the crowd. Anger, exasperation, and what he begrudgingly recognized as concern along with a thousand other half-formed thoughts whipped through his mind, tossed back and forth like a boat torn from its moorings in a storm. This was sure to be it. The moment he had seen coming for years now, where Hawke's inability to disregard her bleeding heart would ultimately be her demise.

"I believe I shall take your scathing look as a 'yes'," Zevran said with a shrug, moving to follow the women down onto the main floor.

Fenris' body reacted of its own accord, a clawed hand shooting out to grab hold of the assassin's shoulder before he could move farther away, stopping the man in his tracks.

"You have something you wish to say?" the Antivan asked, demeanor turning cool as he slowly turned his head to look back at the warrior, the muscles of his arm tensing under his grip.

"I will warn you once," Fenris said, voice rough and dangerous as a wolf's growl. "Should Hawke come to any harm whatsoever by your hand or by those who hunt you - should you lay a single  _finger_  on her - I promise the Crows will be the least of your worries."

"Ah, threats of pain, suffering and death is it then? How magnificently unoriginal."

"I've said my piece. I would suggest you heed it," he said shortly, jerking his arm away from the elf. "Know that I will be watching you, assassin. Very closely."

"I would not have expected anything less," the Antivan said, turning back to descend the stairs with a curt nod. "After all, what satisfaction is there in a conquest won without challenge?"

Fenris struggled to keep himself rooted as the man slunk down the stairs and towards Hawke, his temptation to rid themselves of the cur once and for all tempered only by sheer force of will. He watched in muted rage while the mage smiled at his approach, her face flushing a deep red as they spoke before slipping out of both the building and his sight.

The door to the tavern was still swinging when Fenris made his own way to the exit, shoving through groups of disgruntled patrons without so much as a passing glance. With head low and lyrium burning he stepped out into to the night to trail them from the shadows, the sound of Hawke's laughter prickling his skin as it floated back to him through the humid Lowtown air.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for how long it has taken me to update. Between the Reverse Big Bang, work and real life in general not cooperating I didn't have nearly as much time to work on the story during the summer as I had anticipated. Hopefully you find this next chapter worth the wait!

Much like any other city of Thedas, Zevran found the ambiance of Kirkwall's Lowtown to have shifted greatly between the setting of the sun and rising of the moon. Gone was the stench of bodies baking in the sun and the wafting aromas of merchant's spices, replaced by burnt metal, factory smoke and the occasional gust of salted harbor air. Streets which had been full to bursting short hours before now stood empty and lifeless, their crowds of patrons and workers both retreated to their homes for fear of unwanted notice by the slum's less reputable denizens. The scratch and scrabble of rats amongst crated goods, once unheard over hawker's calls and the clamor of countless feet shuffling through dust, now echoed off stone walls as yellowed eyes gleamed out from the darkness at passersby. In the distance a man was shouting, slurred curses mingling with the crash of shattered glass and his companion's drunken laughter. Their racket carried on for some time, loud guffaws and invective drowning out most of what little noise was made by the man who trailed the Antivan from the shadows.

Zevran smirked as his pursuer slipped from cover to close the distance between them, all pretense of stealth foiled by the faint rustle of leather upon steel. Light footsteps and guarded movement were all well and good, certainly skills he had not expected the man to be capable of, yet these things alone were no match against an assassin's practiced ear. Still, he had to admit this elf, this Fenris, was far more than he appeared. Yes, the man was coarse, boorish in his bearing, and as easily read as a child's primer, but beneath that lay a level of control he had not thought to see in a person so quick to anger. There was a hard-earned discipline to him, something which spoke of a lifetime spent honing skills to the satisfaction of another's demands. Whether they had been commander, lord or master, Zevran could not say. Though he knew now with certainty whoever Fenris was, or perhaps more accurately had been, it was not the simple mercenary he had supposed.

Of course, this did nothing to sour the assassin's amusement at how quickly his grip on said discipline could be shaken by a few paltry words and display of attraction. The glares and poorly hidden hostility had been gratifying enough as it was, but the cryptic threats and assurances of vigilance? Simply priceless. And to think he had assumed all of his enjoyment in Isabela's ploy would come from time spent in Hawke's company. How very wrong he had been.

The Antivan chuckled to himself as he glanced back over his shoulder. A glint of moonlight caught against metal as Fenris ducked behind the column of an abandoned storefront, evidently unaware his cover had been lost mere seconds after their departure from the tavern.

“What's so funny?” Hawke asked beside him, pulling his focus from the man and back to their walk towards her home.

“Nothing all that humorous, I assure you,” he said easily, gesturing towards the buildings surrounding them to direct her attentions elsewhere. There was no need to expose the man and bring an end to his fun just yet. “I must say, though, I cannot help but think of how similar your Lowtown is to the part of Antiva City I lived in while still training with the Crows. Replace the iron foundry with a leather works and throw in a fishwife or two dragging their husbands from a brothel by their ears, and it would be just as though I am home once more.”

Hawke laughed, loud and unhindered, the sound making the edges of his mouth twitch upwards. “I'm not sure about the leather,” she said with a smile, eyes bright as they passed under the glow of a guttering street lamp, “but if you'd like, we can take a detour through the docks. Maker knows we'd be bound to run across at least a couple irate wives and drunken husbands who can't pull their trousers up fast enough.”

“I may very well take you up on that proposition. Though, perhaps on another night, yes? As nostalgic as it might be, I find myself in more need of a bed and good night's rest than a spectacle.”

“Can't say I blame you there,” Hawke said, smile fading as they walked into a wide landing between two sets of steep stairs. She paused in its center, Zevran coming to a stop next to her to watch as her gaze flicked from one case to the other, brows furrowing as though troubled by some difficult decision.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, perplexed by her sudden show of indecision.

“Just contemplating my options,” she said quietly, her eyes trained above them to Hightown's looming walls, stark white and brilliant even in the dead of night. “You'd say that it's past midnight, wouldn't you?”

“Well beyond, I am certain,” he said, a hint of confusion coloring his voice despite his best efforts. “Why do you ask?”

She looked to him, an apologetic grin pulling at her lips as one hand came to rest at the back of her neck. “Sorry. That probably sounded a bit odd coming out of nowhere, didn't it?”

He shrugged, the pack on his back shifting between his shoulders. “I have been asked for far stranger things than the time, Hawke, I assure you.”

“Right. Well, it's just that I normally try to avoid going home through Hightown. There's a passage into the manor's basement near Anders' clinic I use instead. It takes longer and smells worse than a wharf at low tide, but it cuts down on the number of nobles scowling at me like they think I'm about to set the marketplace on fire.”

Zevran's brow arched. “You are not welcome among the very people you defend?”

“Not with much enthusiasm, no.”

“Truly? What reason would they have for holding hostilities against you, of all people?”

“I'd say it's mostly because I very well _could_ burn the place down if I was so inclined.”

Zevran's head shook, an edge of indignation now cutting through his disbelief. “You will have to forgive me if I find that to be a poor excuse at best. Such animosity towards a city's savior hardly seems befitting of its people.”

Hawke snorted, hand falling from her neck as she spun towards the stairs leading away from the squalor of the slums. By the time he had made to follow after her she had already scaled the first several steps, words not meant for his notice floating back to him on a breeze. “It is when they hold their 'Champion' in the same regard as the people who threatened them in the first place.”

She glanced back at him as they climbed, her eyes pinched and new smile lacking its predecessor’s sincerity. The forced humor she had adopted was painful to hear. “Doesn't really matter either way, does it? At this time of night everyone will be too busy snoring in their beds to be offended by my passing through, anyway.”

For a brief moment, Zevran wished to argue the point further, wanted to insist that yes, an affront of this manner most certainly _should_ matter. Particularly when it was committed by those who owed the recipient of their scorn nothing less than their utmost reverence. Similar insults had condemned men to their deaths in the past, his own blades having brought an end to marks too foolish to understand the mistake they had made in offending some prideful member of the Antivan aristocracy. This, however, was neither Antiva nor his place to voice opinions on the affairs of a friend so recently met, whose troubles he would possess little to no understanding of. It was better not to force further conversation on a subject so clearly laden with personal demons - he owed Hawke at least that much after everything she had done for him. And so he remained silent, mind wandering as they slowly made their way up flight after flight of stairs, their surroundings grower ever more opulent the higher they climbed.

Truth be told, Zevran still could not help but be amazed by how readily the mage had offered him both her assistance and a level of trust few had ever deigned to grant. Her willingness to fight alongside a complete stranger was astonishing enough as it was. The idea of then having it matched with an accepted request for lodging had seemed at best wishful thinking, and at worst a gross exploitation of her generosity. Needless to say, the fact that Hawke had not only agreed to his proposition, but given her hospitality with scarcely a moment's hesitation, had left him feeling distinctly humbled. Then again, he supposed he should not be surprised by this latest turn of events. After all, the Maker did seem to find great humor in placing him in the path of women whose senses of honor far outmatched his own.

Acting more out of habit than provocation, Zevran's hand rose to the collar of his curiass, two fingers sliding beneath leather and the cotton of his tunic to rest along the thin chain draped about his neck. Calloused fingertips ran along its length, tugging at the links as a cheerless half-smile curled one corner of his mouth. The golden band it held in place stirred with the movement, shifting against his breast when -

“Zevran?” Hawke's voice asked, its sudden reappearance drawing him from his distraction. He glanced up, finding the woman watching him with what could best be described as polite bemusement as she gestured behind herself. “We're, er, here now. Home sweet home and everything.”

They had come to stop before a pair of great ivy covered pillars, each adorned with a shield bearing the red painted crest of what Zevran assumed to be Hawke's family heraldry. Just visible over her shoulder a massive door stood in waiting, its iron embellishments gleaming in the light of a low burning torch.

_Maledetto_. He had done it again. Allowed himself to drift off while his focus was needed elsewhere, and this time long enough to have traveled through the whole of Hightown without even noticing. He cursed himself as he drew his hand away from his neck, the chain and earring it held both settling back against his skin as irritation flared hot in his chest. These lapses in his attention were unacceptable, potential weaknesses too easily taken advantage of by the Crows should they prove themselves brash enough to attempt a hit while Zevran remained within Hawke's group. And yet they persisted. Sentimental musings which should have been laid to rest years ago, their presence no more than wishful longings for a ship which had long since disappeared past the horizon. Maker, he was a weak-willed man.

“Is everything all right?”

Zevran hastened to school his expression into something other than clouded inattention as he returned his gaze to the woman before him, a slim brow raised in question at his hesitation.

“Yes, of course. My apologies. It seems I am in far greater need of sleep than I had thought,” he said with a chuckle, grin firmly in place as he stepped beneath the building's portico to join her, his free hand sweeping out to motion at her door. “Shall we?”

Hawke's eyes flicked over his face, narrowing in suspicion as she searched for any remaining hint of the sentiment he had not been fast enough to hide from her notice. _Braska_ , but this was the last thing he had wanted. It would not do to encourage the growth of doubts between them, not when their alliance was still so new. The woman's ability to trust may have been unprecedented, but there was no need to try its strength with secrets born of nothing more than petty regrets he was too proud to admit he possessed.

Thankfully, her scrutiny was not long lived, the lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth softening with a short shake of her head. She nodded in answer as she turned to walk towards her front door, a set of brass keys catching the light as they were pulled from the pocket of her breeches. There was a soft click from the lock and muffled groan from seldom-used hinges as Hawke stepped to the side of the open door.

“Well,” she said cordially, lip quirking as her key-laden hand came to rest at her hip, “after you, Serrah Arainai.”

 

* * *

 

 

The crude hold Fenris had clamped around his ire somehow managed to remain intact as he crested the last of the market stairs to slip behind the nearest merchant's stall, cautious to remain hidden from sight as he trailed Hawke and the Antivan through Hightown's plaza. The gap between them was greater than he would have preferred, too large for him to cross without providing Zevran or whatever Crows who may have trailed him several moments' advantage should they move to attack, though there was little else which could be done to remedy it. Already he had come too near discovery in Lowtown, the elf having turned out to be not entirely as incompetent in detection as he had originally wagered. It was wiser to maintain the distance rather than press his luck and risk being exposed, if only for the prevention of the argument it would cause between himself and Hawke should he be found out.

Fenris scoffed quietly to himself as he pressed his back closer to the polished wood, one hand grasping at the corner of the stand while he peered around its edge to watch the pair come to a stop just outside of the Hawke estate. As though the woman would have any valid reason to complain - it was her own damnable naivety which necessitated this in the first place. She was the one who refused to take precautions or see just what situation her lack of self-preservation had led her into. Quick wits and sheer dumb luck could only carry a person so far, how frequently she had fallen back on her own well beyond what was wise. It was only a matter of time before Hawke's ignorance would cost her more than a few sovereigns given to a dishonest beggar, and if he were the only one willing to stand between her and the storm brewing in the distance then so be it. She would realize her folly soon enough.

Murmurs of conversation drifted across the open square, words indistinguishable but tone jovial as they moved towards the mansion's entryway. A wash of dim candlelight spilled over smoothed cobblestones and caught in the fastenings of the assassin's armor as Hawke ushered him inside, only to be swallowed back into darkness as they crossed into the building's foyer. No sooner had the door fallen into place behind them then Fenris stepped out of hiding, ghosting along the outer market wall until he stood in a shallow alcove opposite the window of Hawke's main hall, shielded from notice by a row of potted shrubberies and a wide column.

The elf leaned against its cool marble, arms folding tightly across his chest as a voice in his ear sneered at both the invasion of Hawke's privacy and how easily he had fallen back into the role of a mage's bodyguard. He forced the thoughts to the back of his mind with a low growl, loath to allow distractions when his concentration on the task at hand was of such critical importance. Personal introspection would have to wait for another day, once the Antivan was separated from them by either an ocean or six feet of earth.

Fenris shifted, his ears straining against the silence as he waited for the first sign of movement from the city streets. Distantly, he lamented the lack of his blade's weight at his back, the broadsword having been left in Danarius' mansion earlier in the day when he thought all he had left to endure was an evening's worth of the assassin's blather and stale ale, though these concerns were quickly dismissed as well. Retrieving it at this point was out of the question, the idea of abandoning his makeshift post for even a negligible amount of time enough to set a sense of dread churning in his stomach. No, better to see this first night through swordless and to rely on lyrium and strength alone than tempt the consequences his absence could allow.

A mirthless smirk curled at his mouth as he settled into a more comfortable position against the pillar, eyes narrowing while he turned his focus to the goings on inside Hawke's home. As though he would need anything else to face down whatever assassin the Crows had sent. After all, what chance would a single man stand against a living weapon?

 

* * *

 

 

If ever Zevran were to need further proof of Hawke's dissimilarity to the rest of Kirkwall's elite, he need not look further than the foyer of her estate. Absent was the extravagant ornamentation which so commonly adorned the halls of more foppish nobles, a set of unembellished benches and lit sconces the only furnishings to be found. Their footsteps echoed off of bare stone walls as they passed into the main chamber, only for the assassin to find that it too held the same manner of unassuming simplicity. Sturdy tables paired with thick-carved chairs rested along each of the room's walls, their surfaces cluttered with countless rolls of parchment, ink pots and what appeared to be a wide array of magical oddments and crafting supplies. Decoration was sparse, limited to a scarlet rug, a handful of red stone vases set around a wide mantel, and the portrait of a particularly dour looking man Zevran would not be surprised to learn had resided here far longer than Hawke herself. Everything about the home was practical, modest in its presence where others of a similar ilk possessed pompous assumptions of importance – all qualities perfectly suited to the nature of its master.

“The kitchen and pantries are down that hallway, second room on your left,” Hawke said cheerfully, spinning on her heels to walk backwards as she gestured towards the first of two doors on the far side of the room. “Dining room is first on your right, and the gardens are through the door at the very end, past the stairs that go into the basement. The study's through that second door there, and the bedrooms are upstairs, but I'll show you to yours in a moment. You're welcome to whatever you'd like, feel free to help yourself.”

“Again your generosity humbles me,” Zevran said sincerely, his hands clasping together behind his back. “It is a terrible few who have the good fortune to see their need of assistance met with such warm reception as this.”

Hawke snorted as she came to a stop in the center of the room, her mouth twitching into the beginnings of a smile. “Please, it's not like having you here is any burden. Varric wasn't lying when he said this place is like a tomb on the best of days.”

“Still, I -”

The Antivan's words were cut short, a sudden crash of rushed movement and pounding feet sounding from above. Zevran's eyes narrowed as his attention snapped to the landing of the second floor, the dagger at his belt half-drawn from its sheath by the time his pack had thudded to the ground beside him. Sloppy and rushed, the work of a new addition to the Crows with little experience outside of their training, though obviously one with a great deal of tracking skill to have found him out so soon. He made to step forward as the din grew louder, intent on seeing his host's home rid of the intruder before they could set foot on the ground floor, when Hawke let out a long, exasperated sigh.

“Andraste's ass. Of course he's still awake,” she said in irritation, rounding to face the stairwell as she shoved the hand which still clutched her keys into his chest. “Hold these for me a moment, will you?”

Zevran had little time to do much more than gape, fumbling to take hold of the ring as a great hound the size of a small bear flew from a hallway to barrel down the stairs and into Hawke's chest, leveling the mage with as little effort as one would use to topple a house of cards. The beast let loose a low, rumbling bark, its paws pressed firmly into the woman's shoulders as it dropped forward to drag a wide, slobber covered tongue across her face. She batted at the animal's shoulders, efforts made to shove it off little more than a frustrated struggle for all the good it did her.

“Sampson, no! Get off. _Off_!” Hawke ordered, all attempts at discipline negated by the laughter she was unable to hold back. She grasped at the dog's head with both her hands, shoving it away long enough to find Zevran's gaze, only to laugh louder at his obvious surprise. “I don't suppose you could lend me a hand?”

The man smirked, amusement quickly overwhelming his initial alarm as he watched the woman continue to struggle against the dog's affections. So this was the Sampson Isabela had warned him of. Suddenly, the dried meat still tucked into his pocket made far greater sense than it once had.

“A Mabari hound,” he said with a chuckle, his blade returned to its sheath and keys slipped around his wrist as he stepped forward. “You truly are Ferelden through and through, my friend.”

Both of Zevran's hands tensed as they wrapped themselves around the animal's collar, a great deal of effort and a few choice curses needed to drag the beast back far enough for Hawke to scramble up and to her knees.

“I'd say there's no denying that,” she said, grinning as she pushed herself to her feet and wiped her face with the hem of her sleeve. “How does that saying go? You can take the Dog Lord bitch out of the backwater, but not the backwater out of the Dog Lord bitch or some such thing? Whatever it is, it's dead on.”

With a massive jerk the Mabari tore free of the elf's grasp, bounding the few feet between himself and his master to butt his head against her open palm. “Sampson,” Hawke said, fingers scratching behind his ears as his head lifted at the sound of his name, “this is Zevran. He's going to be staying with us for a few days. Be nice to him - no running him out the front door or making his things into chew toys while he's here, all right?”

Sampson stiffened, his demeanor shifting in an instant to one of stern focus while he spun in place to cast his attention over the Antivan, staring at him as though he had only then realized his presence. Again he crossed the space between them, head low and nose working frantically while he circled about the man's feet. After several long passes he came to a stop before him, falling back onto his haunches with eyes slitted to stare up into Zevran's face, head cocking to one side with as clear an air of critical assessment as the elf had ever seen.

“Sorry,” Hawke said ruefully as she made to pull the hound away. “He acts like this whenever someone new comes into the house. It's not just you, I swear.”

“Not to worry,” Zevran said, waving off her approach with one hand while the other dipped into the pocket of his breeches. “Atlas was much the same when we were first introduced as well.”

The woman raised a dark brow in question. “Atlas?”

“The Warden's Mabari,” he explained, watching in muted amusement while the dog's focus jumped to his waist, ears perking and tongue lolling as he quietly drew one of the more generously sized pieces of jerky out and into his waiting mouth. “To tell the truth, he was not nearly so welcoming as this. Though I imagine that was due mostly to the fact that my first meeting with his master was far less, shall we say, cordial, than our own.”

“From the stories I've heard tonight, I'd say that isn't too difficult to believe,” Hawke said as she watched the hound stand to nose at his hand, stubby tail sent wagging when the man began to scratch at the back of his neck. “If it's any consolation, it looks like Sampson's taken a liking to you. Impressive, really - most everyone else had to go through a good two weeks of side-eying before he trusted them. Anders still gets chased out of the house when he smells particularly strongly of cat. Fenris is the only other person who's won him over so quickly.”

“I am honored to hear it,” the Antivan said honestly, grinning as he dropped down onto the balls of his feet to pet the side of the dog's face and slip him a second piece of meat.

“Mistress?”

Zevran's eyes snapped to the far side of the room at the arrival of the new voice. Standing in the doorway to the servant's quarters was a slight elven girl, her presence meek but eyes bright even as she wiped them free of the last remnants of sleep.

“Orana! I'm so sorry,” Hawke said with a guilty cringe. “We woke you, didn't we?”

The elf shook her head, strands of pale, bed-tousled hair falling to drape about her ears. “It was more Sampson's doing than your own. Oh!” Her eyes widened as they fell over Zevran for the first time, the shawl she wore over her loose fitting nightgown drawn closer while a soft blush crept up to color the tops of her cheeks. “I didn't realize you had a guest. My apologies, I - I'll just -”

“Please, my dear,” he said, cutting the girl off from her retreat to give her a warm smile as he brought himself to his feet. “Propriety is all well and good, but there is no need for embarrassment on my behalf, particularly at such a late hour as this.”

Hawke shot him an appreciative glace before she looked to the girl once more. “Orana, this is Zevran Arainai. He's an old friend of Isabela's and is going to be staying with us for a little while, until his ship leaves port next week. If you wouldn't mind letting the others know he's a guest and not a thief here to raid the wine cellar I would appreciate it.”

“Of course,” the girl nodded, her fingers still clutched tight around a handful of linen at the base of her throat. “Would you like me to turn down the bed in the spare room for you, Master Arainai?”

“Thank-you, Orana, but that won't be necessary,” Hawke answered for him over the sound of his stifled laugh, “Why don't you get yourself back to bed? We've kept you up long enough.”

“Yes Mistress. Sleep well,” The girl gave a swift curtsy, freeing one hand to reach out for the door handle at her side before throwing a nervous glance in Zevran's direction. “I hope you find your stay here comfortable, messere. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”

No sooner had she finished speaking than she was gone, disappearing back into the hallway before the man could so much as begin to murmur his gratitude.

“Well,” he said, still chuckling with keys clinking as he returned them for Hawke to shove back into her pocket, “she certainly seems a pleasant girl. Timid as a Chantry mouse during morning mass, but good natured enough.”

The mage hummed her agreement, waiting for him to collect his pack from the floor before she made to lead him towards the stairwell, Sampson trailing close behind in her wake. “You should have seen her when she first started working for me. Poor thing was too scared to say more than two words at a time, let alone look at anything but the ground when she spoke to you. She really has gotten much better since.”

“She has not been in your employment long, then?”

“A few years now, actually. We found her out in one of the old slaver dens on the coast when Fe- when some Tevinters started causing trouble.”

“Do you mean to say she is a former slave?”

“Ah. Well,” Hawke flinched at the word, grimacing as though she had revealed more than she had intended. “Yes, I suppose she is.”

“And so she has become yet another soul sheltered in your home. Does your magnanimity know no limits?”

“Please,” she said with a roll of her eyes, though Zevran did not miss the way her mouth twitched at the comment. “It's not like I could have just left her there. Besides, she more than earns the coin I pay her. Frankly I'm not sure what we'd do without her at this point. Probably either starve or get a nasty case of food poisoning since we'd have to live off my cooking.”

Zevran tsked, shaking his head as they reached the second floor and turned down a side corridor. “You give yourself so little credit in all things.”

“And _you've_ never had to choke down a mouthful of my charred rabbit stew. According to the commentary I've gotten, it's nearly been the death of three men.”

“A challenge for another day, then?” he asked with a chuckle, their steps slowing to a stop as they reached the second room off of the hall. “Perhaps when your Anders can be close at hand to combat any ill effects.”

“You truly are a braver man than most, serrah,” Hawke grinned, one hand rising towards the unlit sconce at the doorway. With a snap of her fingers the torch's wick caught fire, her dark hair cast amber in its glow while new-formed shadows draped themselves across her face and threw its planes into stark relief.

“This room is yours while you're here, so make yourself at home,” she said, the door beside her thrown open without preamble and two small bursts of flame sent flying into the darkness to light the candles atop an oaken dresser. “The linens are fresh, and there's a wash basin tucked into the closet on the wall with the bookshelf. If there's anything else you need, just let us know.”

“Thank you, that is most kind of you,” Zevran said, offering the woman a grateful nod before stepping over the threshold and into the room.

“I can, er, come get you in the morning,” Hawke suggested after a long pause, watching as he lowered his pack to the floor beside a handsome four-poster bed. “If you'd, you know, care to join us for breakfast, I mean.”

He smiled, amused to see her hesitance in this of all things. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Great!” she said, voice coming out high and cracked before she coughed into a closed fist, her rising blush clear even in the dim light. “I mean, yes. All right. That will be – nice.” She gestured back towards the main landing with a thumb, “I'll just – be going now. Let you get some rest. Sleep well, pleasant dreams and all that.”

“And to you as well, Hawke. Good-night.”

“Good-night, Zevran.”

And with that, both she and Sampson took their leave, the sound of their muffled footsteps lost behind the closing of his door.

 

* * *

 

 

The remainder of the night passed with surprisingly little disturbance, Hightown's silence broken by nothing other than the rustle of canvas awnings in the breeze. Just once Fenris found himself snapped to attention, hackles raised at a loud crash, only to have wariness shift to annoyance as a stray cat shot across the square and away from the bin it had overturned in its scavenging. When the first few hours of his watch passed by without further incident, the elf's alertness eased enough to allow exhaustion to win out, succumbing to sleep and dozing lightly on and off throughout the rest of the night.

Uneventful as his vigil may have been, it was nevertheless with no small sense of relief that Fenris next woke to find the sky tinged pink by dawn's arrival. For a short while longer he remained in hiding, waiting for the sun's first rays to cast shadows along the rooftops and those merchants most dedicated to their craft to stumble bleary-eyed and yawning towards their stalls before he stirred, pushing himself away from his column. He stretched, wincing at the protest of sore limbs which had long since grown unaccustomed to the discomfort of keeping such a post, only to freeze at the sound of another's approach.

In the space of a single breath the elf was pressed against the row of thick shrubs, slipping to the end of the alcove with eyes narrowed and body tensed. The sun had yet to touch the pathway between Hawke's and her neighbor’s estate, the walk and occupant both obscured from view with the latter nothing more than a blurred shape in the near distance. Scuffed footsteps came to a pause as they reached the window of the mage's home, their owner stopping to peer through the glass as they reached to adjust the long, flat bundle strapped across their back.

In two swift strides Fenris was out of hiding and at the person's back, lyrium bursting into life along his arms and chest as his fists clenched around their wrists. With a violent jerk he twisted the intruder in place, shoving them backwards to pin them in place against the wall.

“Enough!” he snarled, grip tightening as his quarry thrashed and fought against his hold. “If you value your pitiful life, be still!”

Pale light caught in their eyes, wide and horror-stricken to match the pained cry which echoed into the darkness.

“Please, messere! Mercy!” the elf girl begged, tears streaming down her face to fall into plaited blonde hair while her fingers clawed uselessly at his gauntlets. “I don't have any coin, I swear! Please, let me go, I beg you!”

Fenris' jaw and hands slacked, self-disgust swelling thick and acrid as he took in the sight of the figure before him. A peasant, hardly more than a child, now terrified and with not a weapon as he had thought but several thin bolts of fabric held across her shoulders with a leather strap. He swallowed hard, choking down on his revulsion as the lyrium cooled and dimmed beneath his skin.

“My apologies,” he said roughly, releasing the girl and stepping away in one short, smooth movement. “You are – not who I had anticipated.”

“Y-you mean weren't trying to rob me?” the girl asked, dumbstruck and frozen in place as she rubbed at her wrist. “Or – or hurt me?”

“No!” And here he had thought the nausea in his stomach could grow no further. The man ran his fingers through his hair, head bowed and cursing himself for his stupidity before he looked to the girl once more. “What purpose do you have here of all places?”

“I work for Madame Rialta,” she said, gesturing to the cloth at her back. “At her stall in the marketplace. She – she's a seamstress, and lives near the Rose. She has me pick up her new inventory to put on display whenever she gets a new shipment in. This was the fastest way to get to the square.”

“Be on your way, then,” Fenris said, nodding towards the swatch of sunlight which had begun to lighten the alley's gloom, eager to see the girl on her way and the end of his embarrassment. “I would suggest you keep clear of this passage for the time being. It is - in your best interest.”

“Yes, messere, I will!” The girl gave a heavy sigh of relief, pushing from the wall to hasten down the path. “Maker keep you!”

Fenris grunted in recognition of the blessing, watching as she disappeared into the morning's light and the market's relative safety before he turned in place to slip further into the street's darkness. A quick bath and his sword. Then he would return, no doubt to find Hawke well rested and bright eyed, already halfway to his mansion with the intent of dragging him along on yet another of her daft missions. Oddly enough, whether it be from lack of sleep or eagerness to see this week's end as soon as possible, that thought was nearly enough to ease what remained of his frustration.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we get started, I'd just like to give a HUGE thank-you to sixpennies for offering their help when one of my betas unfortunately had to step down from editing my writing. I feel extremely fortunate to have found such an awesome beta as quickly as I did!
> 
> Also, just as a heads up, this will most likely be the last chapter of TCWAA I will be able to post until after Christmas has come and gone. I'm going to be even more busy with work than I normally am, plus I signed up for the Dragon Age Holiday Cheer secret Santa through Tumblr and need to have my fic ready for that by the 15th of December. Until then, if you'd like to check out more of my writing, I posted the first chapter of a new fic I started call "Abaddon" a few weeks ago. It's another Fenris/F!Mage!Hawke fic (naturally, haha) about the consequences Hawke's actions during the Chantry incident have for both her and Fenris once they're on the run from Kirkwall. Be warned! It's most certainly not a happy tale at the moment. 
> 
> And I think that's about it! I hope you all enjoy this chapter! :3

Early the next morning, Hawke stood at the entrance to Zevran's room, freshly bathed, dressed in a favored set of robes and wearing a scowl dark enough to rival the Knight Commander in her poorest of moods. A line creased her brow as she stared down at the fist left hovering in the air before her, irritated beyond reason to find herself hesitating in this, of all things. Hawke - the Champion and savior of Kirkwall, the hero who had faced down the Arishok in single combat without batting an eye - too cowardly to knock at a blighted door.

The whole ordeal was nothing short of ludicrous. The man had said himself that he wantedto join her, hadn't he? The only thing her worrying accomplished at this point was keeping the both of them from a hot meal longer than they had to be. Yet each time she managed to convince herself of just that, a painfully vivid memory of 'I mean, yes. All right. That will be – nice,' would spring from the back of her mind to make her cringe while her insides tied themselves into another knot.

Andraste's ass, one night of harmless flirting and she had reverted back to being the little girl who'd hidden in a corn field after the farm boy with pretty eyes had cornered her by the hen house and kissed her. Though at least this time Carver hadn't been there to break Zevran's nose.

Hawke's glower eased enough for the corner of her mouth to twitch; her short, snorting laugh at the memory a much-needed balm for her nerves. “ _Right,_ ”she said to herself, head lifted and shoulders squaring. “ _You're going to have to move at some point. Might as well do it now before he opens the door himself and finds you standing here gaping like some half-witted imbecile.”_

Her hand moved, rapping against the door before her embarrassment could stall her any longer, though whatever sense of accomplishment she felt was quickly overwhelmed by the way her heart lodged itself into her throat at the first knock.

“The door is open,” Zevran called, his voice's pleasant lilt clear, even muffled through the door as it was.

Hawke gave a thick swallow as her fingers fell to the handle, the last of her apprehension forced down into the bottom of her stomach as she pushed the door forward to take a tentative step into the room. Zevran was facing the doorway, lounging contentedly against one of the posts of his bed with whetstone and dagger in hand, the weapon's fellow resting in the blankets beside him. The door gave a soft click behind her as she pushed it closed with her hip, the sound pulling his focus up from his work and to her.

“Hawke,” he said with an easy smile, his arms falling to rest against either of his knees, “I did wonder if that was you shuffling about in the hall.”

“Oh, er, heard me out there, did you?” she said through a suddenly tight throat, her lips turning in what she hoped came off as more an amused grin than mortified grimace. “Sorry about that,” she pressed on, face warming at his answering smirk as she dropped her gaze down to the base of his neck. “I just wanted to let you know breakfast should be ready, if you'd still... care... to...”

Where she had been expecting to find the straps of leather armor or sleeves of a tunic lay nothing but more bronze skin. Caught off-guard, her eyes skimmed without thought along the smooth line of his shoulders and rise of his collarbones, drawing her attention towards the center of his chest and downwards. Like others of his kind, Zevran was slim, his build less prominent than a human or dwarf, though she had learned a long time ago never to mistake such things as a sign of inferior strength. Where others were nothing but brawn and bulge, the muscles beneath his skin were compact, long and lean, so much so they gave him an almost surreal elegance even in rest. It was an effect which she had admittedly grown rather – fond of over the years.

The whole of his torso carried a wide assortment of scars from both blades and bows, most old enough to have all but faded away save a few marks dark enough to hint at a more recent addition. Along one side of his ribs rested more of the same mahogany lines tattooed across his temple and cheek, though these were larger by far. The design seemed to begin somewhere in the middle of his back, wrapping around his side to dip low along his stomach until they disappeared into the waistband of his –

“Admiring the view, are we?”

If Hawke had felt warm before, it was nothing compared to the heat which flared along the whole of her face and neck when Zevran's voice brought her back to herself somewhere between his midriff and the top of a pair of breeches worn dangerously low about his hips.

“Maker's breath! I – I'm so sorry! I didn't know – I mean, I didn't _realize –_ ” she sputtered, one hand flying up to cover her eyes; the gesture meant just as much to afford the man some degree of privacy as it was for her to avoid seeing his reaction to her ogling. She spun on her heel back towards the door like a demon was at her tail, still blinded by her own fingers as she fumbled to find its handle. “I'll just – I'll go wait in the hall while you – clothes.”

Whatever response she had been expecting, it was not the full-bellied laugh which came just as her fingers brushed against the brass knob.

“Please, my friend, the attention was most flattering,” Zevran said with amusement, the mattress creaking as he stood from the bed. “I see no reason for you to apologize. I was the one who invited you in, was I not? ”

Hawke lowered her hand enough to stare into the grain of the door's paneling, pointedly avoiding looking anywhere but straight forward. “Yes, but – you're not decent _._ Wait, no! That's not what I – Of course you're _decent–_ ” By some cruel miracle of nature Hawke's face managed to grow even hotter, the way she felt the man staring into the back of her head sending her stomach into somersaults. There had never been a time she had wished for the Void to open up beneath her feet and swallow her whole more than she did now. “You're not _dressed,_ ” she said, waving behind herself in the general direction of the man's torso.

Zevran laughed again, shifting behind her and loosening what she thought must be the fastenings of his pack. “I will never understand you Fereldens' obsession with modesty. The lot of you would pit yourselves against a band of thieves or some darkspawn abomination without a second thought, yet the smallest glimpse of skin has you skittering away like frightened virgins. One would think the whole of your country has never seen a bare chest before.”

Hawke offered a weak chuckle of her own, though it came out as more a groan than laugh. “Call it lack of exposure. Most of the year you'll start losing toes if you're not wearing three layers and a cloak.”

Another laugh, this one accompanied by the rustle of fabric. “An excellent point, if I do say so myself. Abysmally cold did seem to be the norm while I was there.”

“You get used to it if you're stubborn enough. Either that or you move north,” Hawke said, her humor genuine this time. Bolstered by the man's lack of annoyance at her intrusion, her tension eased enough to allow her focus to drop down to the nightstand at her left, where it was snared almost immediately by a handsome pair of gloves. Their leather was decorated with the most intricate embroidery she had ever seen; delicate vines coiled their way around their cuffs, the length of them decorated by off shooting leaves and miniscule white flowers smaller than the nail of her little finger. Unable to resist she reached out towards them, a fingertip tracing circles around one of countless miniature petals.

“I see you have an eye for fine craftsmanship as well,” Zevran said, his voice far closer than it had been moments before. Hawke turned to glance over her shoulder, finding the man off to one side behind her and mercifully dressed in a wide-necked tunic, a simple golden chain she had not noticed before glinting against his skin.

“They're absolutely gorgeous,” she said with a grin as her eyes rose to meet his, more than happy to take advantage of the change in topic. “I don't think I've seen anything quite like them before. Not in any market I've been in, anyway.”

“That I do not doubt. The Dalish are a notoriously difficult group to trade with. Or so I am told.”

“You mean these are Dalish gloves?” she asked, her eyes widening as she turned to fully face the man. “Just who did you have to run through to get your hands on them, then?”

“As surprising as it may sound, there was no blood shed in my acquiring them. At least none that I am aware of, in any case,” he reached around her to pick the gloves up himself, one thumb stroking lovingly along a seam as he stared down at them. “They were a gift, you see. From a... very dear friend of mine.”

“Well, whoever they are, they have excellent taste.”

Zevran's gaze jumped to hers, his mouth curving into a grin which did not quite reach his eyes. “Of that I can assure you. A higher quality you will not find anywhere else on this side of the Amaranthine,” he said, the gloves raised and waved between them with something like an air of pride before being set back down onto his bed, his hands clapping together as he looked back to her. “Now, what was this you were saying about breakfast? I do so hate to be rude, but I would be lying if I were to say that I am not _completely_ famished.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. Right. We can't have that now, can we?” Hawke said with more enthusiasm than was called for, though if Zevran took notice he had the courtesy not to make mention of it. She reached back to finally take hold of and turn the doorknob, far more relieved than she cared to admit when the both of them managed to step out into the hallway without any further distractions.

They made their way downstairs and through the main hall in a companionable silence, the chamber still and empty save the ever-present fire crackling in its hearth and what appeared to be the beginnings of a new set of runes on Sandal's crafting table. The calm did not last long, however, Bodhan's voice in cheerful but boisterous conversation cutting through the quiet by the time they had reached the room's side corridor.

“Sounds like we have a full house this morning,” she said as they came to the entrance of the dining room, the members of her staff looking up from their places about a long table as they stepped through the doorway. She gestured towards her steward and his son with an open hand. “Zevran, this is–”

“Well bless my beard, it really _is_ you!” Bodhan called, interrupting her introductions as he pushed himself up and away from his chair, a toothy grin spreading from ear-to-ear while he hurried his way around the room. He came to a quick stop before them, arms held wide in welcome and completely oblivious to Hawke's surprise. “When Orana told the boy and I who it was we had staying as a guest, I could scarce believe my ears, but here you are!” Both of the dwarf's hands engulfed one of the elf's, giving it a firm shake. “It is _wonderful_ to see you again, Master Zevran.”

Zevran, looking equal parts stunned and elated, returned the greeting with a warm smile of his own, his free hand coming down to clap the older man on the shoulder. “If it isn't my favorite shrewd merchant!” he said through a thick laugh. “Bodhan, my friend, how are you?”

“Hold on a moment,” Hawke said, brow rising, “the two of you know each other already?”

“But of course! We traveled together for quite some time during the Blight, back when the boy and I were accompanying the Hero of Ferelden,” Bodhan said, still beaming up into Zevran's face as he loosened his grip around the man's hand and took a step backwards. “We did a fair bit of business, as well. Sandal always did love getting the chance to work with your equipment, messere.”

“Enchantment for the Crow!” Sandal chimed in from his seat beside Orana, lop-sided grin twice its usual size as though he meant to back his father's claims.

“Just so, my boy, just so!” the dwarf said, throwing a proud glance over his shoulder. “I must admit, I was quite certain we had seen the last of you once everything was said and done in Denerim. I was told you took your leave for Antiva a few days after all the celebrations ended. Something about important matters and loose ends what needed tying up, as I recall.”

Zevran's weight shifted from one foot to the other, a hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck before falling into place at his side. “Yes, well, unfortunately not all ventures go precisely as planned.”

“Too true, that. I daresay I can speak from experience there.” Bodhan's eyes closed as his head bowed in a brief shake, though his focus returned quickly to the man and woman still standing in the doorway. “But where are my manners? Here I am prattling on while breakfast is getting cold. Please, come in, come in!” he said as he began bustling both Zevran and Hawke the rest of the way into the room, taking the time to make a great show of pulling out chairs for them before returning to his own seat.

The meal waiting for them was no grand affair, Orana having thankfully kept to their rule of not sacrificing sleep in favor of extravagance despite the presence of a guest. Simplicity by no means meant less appealing, however, and Hawke's stomach still gave a loud, rumbling groan as she admired the food laid out before her. A loaf of freshly baked bread had been placed in the center of the table, jars of homemade raspberry jam and a small pot of honey resting beside it. Two types of quiche sat in matching stone pans on either side of a bowl of fruit, one speckled green and red by spinach, basil and tomatoes, the other fit to bursting with every type of breakfast meat she could think to name.

“I do hope everything is to your liking, Mistress. Master Arainai,” Orana said quietly once everyone was settled and had begun digging into the spread, her mouth tilting in a shy smile as she passed a steaming kettle over the top of the table and into Hawke's hands.

“If it all tastes half as good as it smells, it'll be wonderful,” she said, pouring herself a generous measure of tea before offering it to Zevran. He took it with a grateful nod, filling his cup to the brim.

“Agreed. It all looks utterly divine, Orana. You have my thanks,” he said as he passed the tea back to her, politely preoccupying himself with spooning a cube of sugar into his cup by the time the tips of the girl's ears had begun to flush pink.

“Now, I must say I'm thoroughly curious as to what is it that's brought you to Kirkwall, of all places,” Bodhan said as he slid a slice of quiche and bread with jam onto both his and Sandal's plates, pausing to make sure the boy's napkin was firmly tucked into the neck of his tunic before handing him his fork. “A new business venture, perhaps?”

Zevran shrugged. “Unfortunately no, nothing of such great interest. More a case of coincidence than anything else. Though I must admit, my time here has certainly turned out to be far more pleasant than I had anticipated. The company I have come to keep has been most pleasurable,” he said, flicking a satisfied glance towards Hawke whilst dragging a honey-covered knife across a piece of bread.

Hawke felt her cheeks warm at his look as she dropped her eyes to her plate, finding herself suddenly fascinated by a bundle of grapes. A voice in the back of her head gave an exasperated sigh while she busied herself with picking at the fruit, unable to completely ignore its wondering if there would ever come a time where she could manage to be in the same room as the man without turning ten different shades of red.

“And what of you and your son?” Zevran asked as he motioned towards Bodhan with his knife, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Still selling wares at your 'discount'?”

“Oh no, I haven't been in trade for quite some time,” he said conversationally, missing the elf's sarcasm in its entirety. “Not since Sandal and I came into messere Hawke's service near on five years ago, now.”

“How is it that happened, if you do not mind my asking? A merchant-turned-steward is not the change in occupation I would have expected from you.”

“Well, taking on the position was the least I could do after she saved my boy's life,” Bodhan said, one hand dropping onto Sandal's back as he sent a grateful smile over the table and towards Hawke. “He wandered off, you see. During an expedition we'd all signed on for into the Deep Roads. I had turned my back for one minute to break out rations for the crew while they were clearing a blocked passage, and by the time I came back around he had vanished. I do hate to think of what may have happened to him if she and her friends hadn't been there to track him down. He very well may have still been down there to this day, or worse!”

“Is that so,” Zevran said, chuckling as he shifted in his seat to better look at Hawke. “I suppose by now I should have expected such a tale.”

“In all honesty we really didn't do much. No daring rescue or anything like that. By the time we found him Sandal had everything more than under control,” she said, the memory of the boy standing proudly in front of an ice-encased ogre still a difficult sight for her to believe to this day.

Sandal laughed across the table, the whole of his mouth smeared with raspberry jam. “Not enchantment!”

Bodhan smiled and shook his head, loath as always to be dissuaded from his gratitude. “Even so, you were the one who brought him back to camp unharmed. I owed you a great debt for your help, and on my honor as a Feddic I intend to see it repaid,” he said fervently as he leaned over the arm of his chair to wipe his son's face clean with a napkin. “In any case, we've quite enjoyed the time we've spent in our positions here. Sandal's crafting has improved remarkably since we arrived, what with having his own workspace now and all the supplies messere purchases for him. I myself happen to feel there's a great deal of satisfaction in ensuring a home is running as it should. I have to admit, though, I was quite pleased to learn we would have a guest with us over the next few days, even before I knew who it was.

Messere Carver's room had been vacant for so long I was beginning to think it would never see use again, and what a waste that would have been! I do hope you found it comfortable, Master Zevran.”

“Messere Carver?” Zevran asked, brow creasing as he glanced between Bodhan and Hawke.

“Speaking of crafting,” Hawke said hurriedly before her steward had the chance to respond, “I noticed there were some runes out on Sandal's table this morning I hadn't seen before. Starting a new project, are we?”

She kept her eyes on Bodhan alone while she waited for his response, her expression remaining miraculously smooth despite the weight of the questioning gaze she could feel Zevran casting over her. Petty as a reservation as it may have been, Carver and his absence from a home meant to be just as much his as her own was not a topic she wished to breech so soon. Eventually, perhaps. But not now, over what she wished to keep a perfectly pleasant breakfast or in front of the whole of her household. Not just yet.

“That we are!” Bodhan said gleefully with a look towards his son, as unperturbed by the sudden change in topic as Hawke had hoped he would be. “A new set of armor runes if I'm not mistaken, flame warding by the looks of them. Sandal here was quite insistent on starting them last night, said he wanted to have them ready for you in the next day or so, messere.”

“You're making them for me?” Hawke asked, looking to Sandal.

Out of nowhere the boy grew very still, all traces of his usual excited eagerness vanishing in the time it took him to raise his eyes to her own. The whole of his presence turned alarmingly solemn, his posture stiff, mouth drawn taut and brows furrowed over a piercing gaze which seemed to see straight through her. The intensity of it was enough to send Hawke's stomach churning. Foolish, really, to be unsettled by Sandal, of all people, though the thought alone was not enough to drown out a second wave of disquiet while she watched the boy's head tilt forward in a slow, weighty nod.

“Lady needs them,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically low. “They'll keep her safe.”

“I think he intends them to be an apology for the incident we had yesterday afternoon,” Bodhan said cheerfully, either oblivious to or unbothered by his son's shifted mood. “We hadn't been back inside from Sampson's bath more than a moment before he set himself straight to work. Isn't that right, Sandal?”

The gravity in the boy's face vanished as quickly as it had come, his mouth falling open in a wide grin and eyes softening as he turned his head towards his father. “I like the doggy!”

From there on breakfast continued without incident, Hawke's unease towards the younger dwarf's behavior petering out as their conversation moved towards safer topics. By the time she and Zevran had begun discussing potential plans for the day their meal was all but finished, almost everyone's plates left with nothing on them but crumbs. Orana flitted silently about the table as they talked, her arms full of what was left of both quiches when a loud knock came from the direction of the main hall.

“No, that's all right, Orana,” Hawke said with a wave of her hand, standing to answer the door when she moved to do the same with cookware still in hand. “I can get it myself.”

The girl gave a short nod and a “Yes, mistress” before turning back to the table, somehow managing to balance what was left of the bread on top of everything else she was carrying as Bodhan and Sandal began collecting the dirtied silverware. Zevran rose from his chair to help, continuing to chat amicably with Bodhan over a growing pile of soiled dishes and napkins while Hawke stepped through the doorway and down the hall.

By the time she'd made her way through the main chamber and into her estate's foyer the person behind the door was knocking again, the rap of their fist against its frame curt and insistent. Hawke sighed as her fingers wrapped around the cool iron of the latch, certain whatever matter had brought someone to her doorstep before the majority of Hightown had bothered to pull themselves out of bed would not be pleasant. When she opened the door, however, the irritated noblemen or anxious commoner she had been expecting was not there, replaced instead by a ginger-haired woman in a set of immaculately polished armor.

“Aveline,” Hawke said with a relieved sigh, the stiffness which had seeped into her shoulders easing at the sight of her friend.

The guard captain gave a smile at the greeting, her head tilting forward in a short nod. “Morning, Hawke. Glad to see you're up and about. Mind if I come in for a moment? Have a word?”

“No, not at all,” Hawke said, stepping to the side to allow the other woman into the foyer before closing the door behind her. “What's on your mind?”

“More of a 'who' than a 'what',” Aveline said as she propped herself up against the nearest wall, her hands folding together at her waist. “Do you remember that Tevinter spice merchant who set up shop near the docks in Lowtown about a month ago? Calls himself Caius?”

“You mean the squirrelly looking one in the hideous turban who always looks like he just bit into a sour apple?”

“Not how I would have described him myself, but yes, that's him. Have you ever spent time talking with him by any chance? Got a feel for what he's about?”

Hawke snorted, her shoulders pressing into cool stone as she leaned back into the same wall. “Only once, but he wasn't much in the mood for pleasantries at the time. Granted, Sampson had just knocked over half his merchandise while he was chasing after some cat, so I can't say I blame him. Why?”

“One of my sources seems to think he's in the market for more than saffron and ginger,” Aveline said, tossing a pointed look in Hawke's direction. “Apparently, more than a few people have gone missing over the past week or so; some of the younger waifs who hang around near the foundry and a few of the elves from the Alienage.”

“The sorts of people who could disappear without most Kirkwallers thinking twice of it.” Hawke's back stiffened, her smile slipping. “You think it's slavers?”

“Positive, and damn near just as certain Caius is the one pulling the strings. He's been seen coming and going from some of the old warehouses along the wharf, more so just in the last two days. Sometimes on his own, but more often than not with a group of men too well-armed to be dock workers or stall hands. A perfect place to store living cargo, if you ask me.”

“Is that enough for your men to go on?”

“For an arrest? No. We don't have anything that directly connects him to the disappearances yet,” Aveline said, the leather band about her forehead shifting with a conspiratorial lift of her brow. “An investigation, on the other hand, is a perfectly reasonable response. And should Caius start any trouble while it was being conducted... well, we'd be perfectly within our rights to defend ourselves, wouldn't we?”

Hawke gave a tight-lipped grin. “Why Aveline, it sounds like Isabela is starting to rub off on you after all.”

“You're _all_ to blame and you know it,” she said with a grim, short-lived chuckle. “Besides, I won't abide being buried in a mountain of paperwork and legal technicalities while he's shipping people off to slave markets in the Imperium.”

“A most reasonable sentiment for you to hold, if I do say so myself.” Both women's heads snapped up at the sound of the newcomer's voice, finding Zevran standing in the doorway to the main chamber. His eyes swept back and forth from Aveline to Hawke, raising a hand to gesture towards them when their silence dragged on for several moments. “Please, do carry on. It was not my intention to interrupt.”

“Hawke,” Aveline asked finally, her eyes narrowing as she cast a wary gaze over the Antivan, “who is this, and what in the name of the Maker is he doing in your house?”

“Ah, how terribly rude of me!” Zevran said, head ducking as he swept himself into a deep bow. “Zevran Arainai, my dear lady. Assassin, thief, and former Antivan Crow, at your service. A pleasure to meet you, I am sure.”

“Aveline, Zevran is a friend of Isabela's,” Hawke explained when the man's greeting earned him nothing more than heightened scrutiny. “He needed a place to stay that was... out of the way until his ship leaves port at the end of the week. I offered him one of the spare rooms in exchange for his help on an odd job or two.”

“Why am I not surprised in the least?” Aveline asked with a shake of her head, half resigned, half amused. “The people you stumble across, Hawke, I swear.”

“It's a gift.”

“That's one way to look at it,” the other woman said as she pushed herself away from the wall. “Anyway, I thought you might be interested in lending a hand.” She shot a second critical glance in Zevran's direction. “Serah Arainai as well, I suppose, so long as he sees to it that our interests remain mutual.”

“On that you have my word, I can assure you. I hold no affinity for those who barter in lives,” Zevran said sincerely before looking to Hawke, an eager smirk pulling at his mouth. “What say you, my friend? Have our plans been made for us?”

“They certainly seem to have been,” Hawke said, turning to Aveline as she too stepped away from the wall. “We can stop by the Hanged Man on the way, see if Isabela and Varric want to tag along.”

“Fenris, as well? You know he'd want a hand in this.”

“Yes, he would, wouldn't he?” Hawke said, cringing inwardly at the thought of having to play mediator between Fenris and Zevran, though perhaps with any luck the prospect of dead slavers would be enough to temper the hostilities between them. At least until the end of Aveline's investigation. “Right. We'll grab him too, then. It never hurts to have an extra sword on our side. Give us a moment to get our gear and we'll head out.” She pushed herself forward, stepping through the doorway to the main hall while nodding towards the side corridor. “Orana should still be in the kitchen if you'd like to say hello in the meantime. You may even get a piece of quiche out of it.”

 

* * *

 

Several minutes later Hawke made her way downstairs, belt buckled about her waist and staff returned to its customary place at her back. Aveline, much as she'd expected, had indeed made her way down the hall and into the kitchen, found in easy conversation with Orana over a small plate of leftover breakfast. They lingered long enough to thank the girl again for their meal, to tell her not to bother with preparing anything for lunch and, after a moment's hesitation, for Hawke to tuck a large green apple from a basket on one of the counters into a pocket of her robes.

Back in the main hall, Zevran stood waiting for them at the bottom of the stairwell, once again dressed in a set of well-oiled leathers with arms folded casually over his chest and daggers strapped at his hips. He smiled at their approach, Hawke catching a second glimpse at the pair of green-embroidered gloves as his hands fell to hang at his sides. They made their way to the front entrance of her home without further fuss, the hour still young enough that whatever glares or snide remarks sent in the mage's direction as she passed through would be few enough to tolerate. The door opened up onto what promised to be a fair day's morning, the sun hanging low in the sky while vendors busied themselves with their wares, each of the marketplace's occupants preoccupied in a hurried bustle. All save one, at least.

At the end of the portico covering Hawke's doorway a man rested against one of the ivy-covered columns, his bare, tattooed foot propped up against its marble while the hilt of a massive broadsword glinted over his shoulder. His head snapped towards them at the sound of her door's hinges groaning back into place, a fringe of white hair falling into his eyes with the movement as he shifted to his feet.

“Fenris?” she asked, with no small amount of surprise. “What are you doing here?”

The man gave a short huff as he turned to face them, stiff and rigid, so much so Hawke could guess that whatever rest he'd gotten since they'd last met had been poor at best. For a moment his gaze flicked to where Zevran stood at her right, the beginnings of a sneer appearing and vanishing beneath a carefully smooth expression in the span of a heartbeat. “You've come requesting my assistance with every job you've stumbled upon for the past week,” he said as his eyes returned to her, his voice carrying a hint of challenge as though he expected her to deny it. “I thought it best to save us both the trouble. For... practicality's sake.”

Hawke blinked, taken aback as she tried to decide if she had heard the man correctly. Whatever attitude she had been anticipating from Fenris after their argument the night previous, it had most definitely not been an honest attempt at civility - let alone a willing offer of help not retracted the second he'd laid eyes on Zevran.

“Yes, well,” she said after a short pause, incredulous despite her best efforts, “I suppose it does save us a trip across Hightown.”

Fenris' brows raised in tandem, apparently astonished himself to see his presence accepted without protest. “You do have need of me, then?”

“We've got a potential slaver ring operating out of the docks in Lowtown,” Aveline cut in, all business. “There've been over ten disappearances so far, and not one with a reasonable explanation.”

“Your leads?” Fenris asked, just as serious, ease dropping away as the lines of his face hardened.

“Only one. A Tevinter going by the name Caius.”

“We were just on our way to ask the man some questions,” Hawke said with an offered smirk, steadier now, not about to be foolish enough to continue questioning the elf's unspoken offer of a truce. “Thought you might be interested in joining us.”

The grin she received in answer was tight, a shiver racing down Hawke's spine as she watched something almost feral flash in Fenris' eyes at her suggestion. The sensation was... not entirely unpleasant. “Indeed.”

“Splendid!” Zevran said rather loudly, making the others around him jump. “Shall we be off, then? We do ourselves no favors by giving the rat more time to burrow farther into his nest, after all.”

Fenris nodded. “The Crow is right,” he said, the words tasting like vinegar if the sour look he pulled as he spoke was any indication. “We should move on.”

“Fine by me,” Aveline said as she stepped out from beneath the balcony and into the sunlight, one hand resting on the pommel of her sword. “Let's get on with it, then.”

“Wait,” Hawke said to Fenris, stopping him as the others began making their way across the market. He turned, annoyance fading to confusion as he watched her hand dip into her robes to pull out and place the apple she had taken earlier into his palm. “Here. You'd said before the green ones were your favorite, right?”

“What is this?”

“Well, most people I've run into call them 'apples', but I'm sure it varies from place to place.”

Fenris scoffed, his eyes rolling. “Hilarious. Why are you offering it to me?”

“For breakfast, of course. I'd have brought some of Orana's bread and jam, but that would've made a mess out of my pockets.”

“I do not need your charity, Hawke,” he said, nose wrinkling as he tried to hand the apple back to her.

“It's not charity in the least.”

“And what is it then, if not that?”

“A peace offering,” she said with a smile. “For the sake of practicality, or however it was you put it. Three silvers say you haven't had anything to eat since yesterday, and there's no sense in killing slavers on an empty stomach, now is there?”

This time his smile was much softer – genuine, if not free of his usual reserve, though Hawke took it gladly, her own grin growing at the sight of it. She quickly tucked the picture of it away into the back of her thoughts, before good sense could rouse itself to question her poor judgment. “I cannot disagree with your logic.”

“What do you say, then?” she asked as they stepped out of the shade to follow their companions. “Do we have an accord?”

Fenris gave a short huff of a laugh, the sound sending a pang of fondness through her chest before it too was set aside for later.

“I believe we do.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize (again) for the long delays between chapter updates and thank you all profusely for your patience. Reviews quite literally make my world go 'round, so please let me know what you're thinking of the story so far! :3

Their walk through the marketplace was a blessedly uneventful one, the vendors and their assistants too preoccupied by wares and idle chatter to bother taking any interest in them as they strolled by. A willowy elven girl, the same seamstress's apprentice who Hawke had noticed the previous afternoon, was the only person to show them more than plain indifference. Glancing up from the swaths of fabric she was arranging at the sound of their passing, the girl's eyes widened as they flicked over the group, only to flit away when Hawke's gaze met her own. The apprentice hurriedly returned her attention to the merchandise, suddenly flushed and seemingly determined to rid a blue satin bundle of nonexistent wrinkles. Hawke sighed, distracted enough with imagining whatever bout of gossip the girl's mistress had fed her not to notice the tension which had crept into Fenris's jaw or the way he neglected to look anywhere but directly ahead until they had made their way down the first flight of stairs.

By the time they reached the Lowtown bazaar morning had well and truly begun, the streets buzzing with the murmur of patrons and traders alike while dock hands and laborers bustled through. The landing outside the Hanged Man was markedly less busy, the crowd having thinned enough for Hawke to spot Varric seated on top of a crate by the doorway, a polishing rag in one hand and Bianca laid out in his lap.

“'Bout time you decided to show up,” he said, smiling as he looked up from where he'd been running the cloth over the crossbow's lath. “I've been waiting out here for a solid hour, now.”

“I didn't realize you were so eager for company this early in the day, Varric,” Hawke said with a lift of her brow. “Whatever happened to 'not before elven bells'?”

He chuckled, leaning back into the wall behind him. “You know me, Hawke. I'll always make an exception for a good friend. Or in this case, a good tip. From what I hear that Tevinter friend of yours that you're headed off to visit sounds like a real charmer. Wouldn't want to miss out on a chance for Bianca and I to introduce ourselves, would I?”

“You already knew?” Aveline asked, taken aback before her eyes narrowed. “Care to bother explaining how?”

“Oh, come on now, Aveline,” he said with a disappointed _tsk_. “You know you aren't the only one with a few extra pairs of eyes and ears skulking around in the alleyways for you.”

The guard captain groaned, one hand coming up to pinch the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “Varric, how many times do I have to ask you to stop paying off the urchins to do your spying?”

“'Spying''s such an ugly word. I prefer 'keeping tabs' if it's all the same to you.”

“Well, whatever you call it, you aren't wrong,” Hawke said quickly, cutting in before an irked-looking Aveline could start on what would have no doubt been a spectacularly failed lecture. “You've already been filled in on the situation, then?”

Varric shrugged as he stuffed the polishing rag into a pocket of his duster. “The main gist of it. Enough to guess we'd be getting ourselves involved, in any case. You ask me, this Caius fellow's welcome ran out the day he pulled into port.”

“Couldn't agree with you more.” Hawke glanced towards the tavern's door. “Think 'Bela would care to join us? There's bound to be a body or two for her to loot once we're finished.”

“Err, I don't think that's an option at the moment,” Varric said, his attempt to hide his smirk poor at best. “Corff says she and her...  _friend_ from the bar last night were more than a bit lopsided when they made their way upstairs a few hours after you left.”

Behind Hawke, Fenris muffled the start of a chuckle into a closed fist, quickly turning it into a cough while Zevran laughed aloud. “Ah, Isabela. It is good to see she has not changed.”

Aveline's eyes rolled as she pulled her hand away from her face. “You can't be serious.”

Bianca collapsed as Varric slung her against his back, sliding himself off of his perch and onto his feet. “Afraid so,” he said, jabbing a finger over his shoulder. “Unless you'd like to go ask her yourself. I'm sure she'd be happy to see you especially, Aveline. Said she was just  _dying_ to ask about your anniversary night with Donnic yesterday, since it was good enough to keep the both of you from cards. Mentioned something about pommels being put in odd places too, but I might have misheard things.”

“That won't be necessary, Varric, thank you,” Aveline said, voice short and freckles standing out against the wash of red which bloomed across her face. “We can manage on our own.”

“Thought as much,” he said with a wink in the captain's direction before pressing on, hands clapping together. “What are we waiting for, then? Let's find ourselves a slaver.”

 

* * *

 

 

As it turned out, tracking down Caius was a task far easier said than done. For well over three hours Hawke and the others trekked back and forth along the whole of the Lowtown docks without luck, the man's stall left vacant with no sign of him to be found, no matter how many nooks or filthy side streets they searched through. Even the old Qunari compound, left abandoned and, as was pointed out by Fenris, an excellent place to hide what you did not wish to be found, gave them nothing more than another dead end and a mouthful of dust when an old canopy collapsed on their way out.

Finally, with noontime come and gone and the sun well overhead and hot on their backs, Aveline suggested they rest a while in a spot of shade along the pier for a drink and a chance to mull their options over. An agreeing murmur rippled through the group, and it was not long before the lot of them had thrown themselves against or on top of the various bits of cargo strewn across the dock, waterskins passed back and forth between them.

“Hold on a moment,” Hawke said several minutes later from atop her barrel, her canteen hovering halfway to her mouth when her attention was snared by one of the ships moored some distance down the docks. “I think I've just spotted our man.”

No more than a handful of steps down the gangplank of the freighter, a slim, shifty-looking man dressed in green robes and a turban was caught in heated conversation with a merchant at his left, a handful of well-armed men several paces in front and behind the both of them.

“That's him all right.” Aveline crossed to Hawke as the man made a harsh gesture into the palm of his hand. “Having a difficult time negotiating prices by the look of it.”

“And departing a Tevinter trading vessel,” Fenris said as he came up on Hawke's other side. “It seems your assumptions were well-founded, Aveline.”

“Are they ever not?” she asked, a hard smile thrown in the elf's direction which he quickly returned.

“So our man has finally decided to show himself. Fantastic,” Zevran's voice said happily from behind her, the sound of boots scraping against wooden planks soon following.

“You can say that again.” Hawke brought herself to her feet, canteen corked and tucked back into its place on her belt. “Looks like we won't be out here searching until sundown after all.”

For a long while the two men stood together at the bottom of the gangplank. Eventually the second merchant – a broad-chested man with a massive beard and shaved head – pulled out a leather-bound book and flipped through it with his thumb. After finding the page he was looking for, he jabbed at the paper with a finger before shoving the ledger into Caius's hands, an expectant grin twisting his lips. Caius seemed to find whatever information the book held much less to his liking, his expression turning sour as he closed it with a snap and thrust it into the other man's chest before storming off towards the nearest stairwell, a sharp motion towards the mercenaries making them fall in behind at his heals.

“All right,” Aveline said as the bearded man began to laugh, tucking his book into his pocket while he turned to make his way back onto the ship, “same plan as always. Keep on his tail and let him lead us to his base. Don't get near enough to let him spot us, but don't lose him in the crowd, either. We most likely won't get a second chance at this today, and definitely not before he finalizes whatever deal he's made with his friend.”

“I suppose we'll be coming back later for Baldy, then?” Varric asked as they gathered themselves together, Caius and his men just cresting the top of the stairs as they started off down to the end of the pier.

One corner of Aveline's mouth quirked as she answered: “Of course. It would be rude not to show him a bit of Kirkwall hospitality. Besides, the keep has an open cell I think he'd find most accommodating.”

“I like the way you think, Aveline. Scares the ever-living shit out of me some days, but I like it.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Sewers. Why is it always through the damned sewers?” Hawke asked no one in particular, grimacing at the muck already collecting on her boots while she gathered up the hem of her robes. “I'll be picking bits of mess out of these for a week.”

A small ball of magelight flared to life in her free hand, the grime-coated stone walls of the tunnel they stood in giving off a wet and sickening gleam in its light. The ceiling above them hung low and sloped, close enough overhead for Hawke to press the full palm of her hand against its highest point should she wish to, though the presence of yet more filth and a thick, phlegm-colored mold growing between the cracks in the mason work made the notion less than appealing.

“Look on the bright side,” Varric said with a huff as he dropped down from the last rung of the ladder, sending a spray of something vile splashing in Hawke's direction, her horrified disgust ignored as he carried on. “At least you're wearing them. Broody here gets to wade through all this barefoot.”

Fenris, looking decidedly surly in the magelight's glow, threw a glower in Varric's direction. “Your powers of observation are astounding as always.”

“Hey now, no need to get testy. It's not my fault you're too damned stubborn to put on a pair of shoes.”

“The dwarf does make an excellent point,” Zevran said with a shrug before Fenris could bite out a reply. “It sounds as though your group takes on jobs such as this quite frequently. One would think a proper pair of boots would be a logical necessity.”

“That's  _ enough _ , the lot of you,” Aveline hissed over her shoulder, already several paces down the passage in the direction Caius and his men had moved. “Maker's breath, do you  _ want _ them to hear us coming?”

“Apologies,” Zevran said, voice dropped low and hands raised in placation, Fenris grumbling out some foreign curse beneath his breath.

Hawke gestured down the path with her lit hand while Aveline gave a short, disgruntled shake of her head. “Come on. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can all start breathing again.”

Varric gave an agreeing grunt as they set off, the little light from the open manhole above quickly fading into nothing behind them. “Just make sure you keep that flame of yours going, Hawke. I don't want to spend my afternoon pulling myself out of a sinkhole if it can be avoided.”

They trudged through the darkness for some time, Aveline, Hawke and her wisp of flame leading the way with Fenris, Zevran and Varric bringing up the rear in single file. Several times the tunnel split and ran off into one or more paths and they would pause, their ears straining for some sign of movement over the sound of moisture dripping from the walls to hint at which direction they should take. More than once, too much time would tick by with nothing heard, a fresh wave of anxiety knotting in the pit of Hawke's stomach at the thought that they had moved too slowly or chosen the wrong path – until some clink of metal or echo of a voice would float back to them and she would let go of a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

When the better part of an hour had passed them by, the tunnel began to widen and the path to rise, the muck and mud coating the floor and walls drying out to packed earth while stone pillars and wooden beams spread out along the channel to support the weight of the ceiling. Soft light began to filter down towards them, growing stronger the higher they climbed until the flecks of dust and dirt floating through the air began to catch and Hawke's light was made unnecessary.

Once their footing reached a level field they found themselves at the end of a short corridor, its end marked by a rough, iron clad door left standing open on its hinges. Beyond its frame Hawke could see into a thoroughly dust-covered but organized store room, a second closed door standing against its far side while rows of wooden crates lined what she could see of the walls.

“Using the sewers to sneak people in and out of warehouse basements,” Varric said as he stepped ahead of the group and towards the doorway, smiling with the same impressed air he reserved for the few instances someone other than himself or Isabela managed to win at a hand of cards. “The slippery bastard's clever, even if following him was a gigantic pain in _the—_ ”

“Wait!” Zevran called out, all traces of the lightness Hawke had come to expect in his voice replaced by an insistent, hard edge. Varric paused where he stood, one foot left hovering above the threshold while she and the others watched in puzzlement – or, in Fenris's case, annoyance – as he pushed his way to the dwarf's side, mouth pressed thin and eyes trained on a threadbare mat laid out on the floor in front of him. His brow cocked as Zevran put a hand on his shoulder to pull him back into the corridor, the elf sparing a quick glance in his direction before dropping to his knees.

“Uhh, there a problem we should know about?”

Zevran bent forward, fingers running themselves along the hem of the unassuming rug. “A problem? No, no,” he said, unaffected and too absorbed in whatever it was he was doing to notice the questioning look Varric shot over his shoulder towards Hawke. “At least there will not be soon enough.”

With a snap of his wrist the rug was torn up and to one side, and whatever confusion Hawke had felt at his behavior snapped into some odd mixture of alarmed relief.

“Is that _ — _ ” she blinked, gaping down at the pressure plate set in the exact center of the doorway. “Maker's Breath, is that a  _trap trigger_ ?”

“Indeed,” Zevran said, tone turned easy once more as though they were discussing nothing more pressing than a chance of rain. “This Caius was determined to give anyone who followed him quite the surprise, it would seem.”

Varric gave a low whistle as he lowered himself to a crouch beside him, arms braced against the tops of his knees. “Impressive, Pretty Boy,” he said, watching intently as Zevran began to prod beneath the plate with a thumb. “What tipped you off that it was there?”

“'Tipped'?” Zevran asked without looking up from his work, chuckling over the sound of a latch clicking into place. “There was none, I fear. I must say, whoever it was who left this here is excellent at their craft. A shame we will most likely have to kill them, no?”

“What, so you just... guessed?”

“Of course not.” There was another, louder creak, metal sliding fast against wood. A massive row of spikes, rusted and tarnished with age, but nevertheless sharpened into wicked points, shot up into the room just beyond the doorway between the cracks in the floorboards with a  _shink_ loud enough to shake through the air and reverberate in Hawke's chest. “It is simply what I myself would have done had I been in their place.” 

“Remind me later never to get on your bad side,” Varric said with a heavy shake of his head, both men rising as the spikes slid back beneath the floor. “The last thing I need is my pillow turned into a pincushion.”

“Frankly, I'm a bit shocked,” Hawke said as they finally – and very carefully – crossed into the room, unable to not feel a small sense of pride at how steady the words managed to come out despite their near miss at being impaled. “Our expert rogue, beaten at his own game. I'd be careful if I were you, Varric. We might end up offering Zev your place on a more permanent basis at this rate.”

“Empty threats, Hawke,” he said assuredly over Aveline's attempt at remaining stern-faced whilst silencing a snort of a laugh, the repulsion which flashed across Fenris's face short-lived but not unseen. “You'd miss my dashing good looks and dwarven charm by the end of day one.”

The door at the other side of the room led to yet another wood paneled corridor, torches mounted to the walls in thick brackets providing more than enough light to see by. Several additional rooms lined the way on either side of the hall, though upon further investigation they provided nothing more interesting than more unmarked crates and traps for Varric or Zevran to disarm. Towards its end, the passage took a sharp turn left, leading Hawke and the others deeper into the warehouse until they arrived at what appeared to be the antechamber to a large room. Yet another door rested in the center of the wall before them, the corridor splitting in two and spreading out to the left and right before turning forward again, the beginnings of a matching set of rickety staircases just visible at either end from where they stood.

Aveline motioned to them for quiet as she stepped up to peer through a crack between the boards of the door. Hawke followed, moving silently to her side with one eye closing as she too pressed herself up against it to glance into the room for herself. Like she had supposed, the room beyond the doorway was massive, stacks upon stacks of barrels and unpacked merchandise flush with the walls while several crates of varying sizes rested in no particular order throughout the open space. Platforms raised well above the floor sat on either side of the chamber, deteriorating guardrails lining their edges while bits of scaffolding and rope held more goods up and out of the way on wooden pallets. Against the far wall in front of them another platform rested above a large iron-studded door, this one carved directly from the rock face which built up the sides of the room. Below all this a small number of men – the same mercenaries they had spotted tailing Caius through the streets – stood in lax attention, some talking amongst themselves in small groups, others fiddling with knifes or other bits of gear while they rested against the flat of a crate.

“How many do you count?”

“Six from where I'm standing, four swords and shields, one with an ax and another with a greatsword,” Hawke answered in a whisper, her fingers coming up to rest against rough grain as she tried to angle herself for a better glance. “Can't see behind that crate the tall bloke with the dent in his breastplate is leaning against, though.”

Aveline shifted next to her, a hand pressing against the plate of her armor to keep it from creaking as she moved. “There's two more behind him, another swordsman and one with daggers.”

“No sign of Caius?”

“None. He's probably in the back, organizing his  _cargo_ ,” Aveline said, her nose wrinkling. “No matter, we'll reach him soon enough. This lot won't give us any trouble.” She pushed herself away from the door, Hawke stepping back to loose her staff from her shoulders as Aveline turned to speak with the others. “Right. There's only eight of them, a quick and easy sweep if we're smart about it. Fenris and I take front, Varric behind in cover with Hawke and Zevran, you can _ — _ Where in the Void did Zevran go?”

Something heavy and cold clenched around Hawke's stomach, and she spun back to face the group in time to see both Fenris and Varric shift to stare at the very much empty space behind them where Zevran had been standing moments before.

“Well. Shit.”

“Gone,” Fenris's head snapped forward, his eyes turned flinty and tight. “The Crow has abandoned us. How surprising.”

“No. No, he wouldn't do that,” Hawke's eyes swiveled throughout the room, her heart sinking when she found nothing but unfilled corners.

A dark eyebrow arched high enough to disappear beneath pale hair as Fenris folded his arms over his chest. “His lack of presence suggests the contrary.”

“Have to hand it to him, the elf knows how to disappear when he wants to.”

Hawke's shoulders dropped. “He can't have gotten far yet,” she said, her hand waving out halfheartedly towards the hallway they had come from. “Should we... do we bother going after him?”

“For what purpose?” Fenris asked with a scoff as he glared back at the closed door. “The coward has made his decision. Better to face this Caius now while we have our chance than waste the opportunity.”

“You're right,” Hawke said with a sigh, lips pressed thin as she pulled her back straight and shoved her disappointment aside. “Zevran knows where to find us if he cares to join us later. And he damn well had better have a good excuse and the coin to cover a round if he does.”

Varric snorted. “That'll be one I have to hear.”

“We can worry about all that later,” Aveline said sharply, pulling everyone's attention to where she had moved back towards the door. “Like Fenris said, taking Caius while we can is more important than Zevran deciding he didn't want to get his hands dirty. We're more than capable of handling him and his men on our own.”

“Right,” Hawke nodded, fingers closing hard around her staff as she brought its end to rest against the ground. “Same plan as before?”

“Same plan as before.”

“Then let's have at it,” she said as she marched up to the door, her expression tight as she reached out to shove it open. “I could do with a good fight right about now.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Andraste's ass,” Varric muttered, Bianca out with his finger resting on her trigger. “I think this is turning into a bit more than we bargained for.”

Hawke's brow furrowed as her eyes shot throughout the room, staff in both hands and the inside of her cheek caught between her teeth. Yet more men filtered out of the back room to move between their fellows, their number doubling while the archers who had slipped from hiding along the platforms at their left and right stood ready, arrows nocked and trained. The first sparks of mana flared into life beneath her skin, heat licking its way along the length of her arms and spreading out to the tips of her fingers, the realization of just how accurate Varric's statement might be making her throat run dry.

Beside her, Aveline shifted her feet into a wider stance, frowning while she, too, took in the number they stood against. “A damned ambush,” she said quietly, grimacing as her grip around her sword tightened. “I should have known.”

“I was hoping you would make an appearance, Champion,” said a reedy voice from above them; smooth, unhurried, and dripping with self-importance.

Hawke's eyes snapped up. There, leaned against the railing of the stone platform at the other side of the room, stood Caius. His mouth twitched at her notice, an oily smile drawing itself across his face and baring a mouthful of too-white teeth.

“I must say, you have surprised me,” he said calmly, drawing himself up to his full height and clasping his hands behind his back, focus locked on Hawke with the same intensity of a wolf fixing on its quarry. “For a backwoods apostate with such...  _ unorthodox  _ training you've managed to do exceptionally well for yourself. Deep Roads explorer, slayer of the Arishok, savior and protector of an entire city – and yet, you take it personally upon yourself to see to the rescue of a paltry set of slaves. How very noble of you.”

“You admit it, then,” Hawke said, the words coming out clipped and derisive. “Snatching people from the streets to ship them off to Tevinter. And here I'd been hoping the seedy-looking merchant  _ wouldn't  _ turn out to be a greedy arse half a conscience short of a moral compass for once.”

Caius gave a short, sharp laugh as he began to pace along the length of his platform, his robes shifting about his legs with each easy stride. “Such harsh judgment! You are aware, I am certain, that your hypocrisy does not change your own offenses. How many of your fellow refugees from that frozen backwater you call a country did you shove beneath your heels when you clawed your way out of the slums? Better yet, how many lives have you ended under the pretense of 'necessity' in order to bring yourself to where you stand today?” He stopped then, turning to glare down at Hawke once more, his head shaking in a slow side-to-side. “You and I are more alike than you would care to admit, dear Champion.”

“You make it sound as though I  _ enjoy  _ stumbling into these messes day in and day out,” she said, scoffing up at the man, even as something sharp knotted itself beneath her chest and tightened, Caius's goading hitting its mark. She shook herself free of it with effort – now was not the time to dwell on guilt over unavoidable deaths, no matter how numerous they may have been. “Twist things to your liking all you want. I'm  _ nothing  _ like you.” 

“The stories I have heard would suggest otherwise,” he said with a shrug. “The name 'Hawke' is a well-known one, even back home in the Imperium. Whether you intended to or not, you've made quite the impression amongst the magisters. Proven yourself a nuisance and cost a certain few a fair bit of coin, as well.” His eyes cut to her right where Fenris stood, broadsword held high and arms stiff. “It's fortunate you decided to bring your pet elf along with you. Certain interested parties have offered a most handsome reward for your retrievals. The both of you together are worth ten times as much as the stock I already have.”

Anger, hot and bitter in her mouth, shot through her at the threat, jaw clenching like a vice while her retort was caught at the tip of her tongue. Fenris growled before she could manage to free it, a flash of blue light flickering from where his hands clenched around the hilt of his sword and up the length of his arms.

“Try to take us if you wish,” he said as he shifted down into a battle stance, voice cold as frosted steel. “I promise you will not survive the attempt.”

Again the slaver laughed, the sound heavy and amused as he stretched an empty hand out before him, electricity cracking into life to jump and snap across his palm. “I believe I will take my chances.”

Hawke cursed as Fenris's voice turned harder still. “ _ Mage _ .” 

The sparks fizzled out as Caius closed his hand into a fist and brought it to hang at his side, his mouth raised into a smirk. “Take the Champion and the elf alive,” he said easily, calling out to his men. “Kill the others if neces _—_ ”

A shout rang out from their left. Then another, loud and pained and cut short by the sharp  _ crack  _ of snapping wood. Hawke startled, heart jumping hard enough to skip a beat as she whirled in place to stare up into the platform at the side of the room, her mouth falling open at the sight she found. Two of the three archers who had been standing at the ready lay dead, one slumped against the nearest crate, the other, having stumbled forward into the guardrail and then through it, crumpled in an awkward pile of limbs and bow on the ground. The third man lowered his arrow to stare at the bodies, horror-struck – until a gloved hand reached around his neck from behind, the blade of a dagger flashing silver before it was drawn in one crisp motion along the base of the man's throat. He sputtered, blood flooding down his front and flecking his lips, the fingers he pressed to the wound covered in seconds. The hand around the archer's neck disappeared, replaced by a boot in the small of his back which sent him flying through the same hole and onto the floor below, landing with a muffled  _ whump  _ on his fellow's back where he did not move again. 

“I am curious,” Zevran said casually from where he stood at the break in the railing, posture loose and attention focused on his blade as he wiped it clean on the shoulder of the dead man at his side, “why it is that men such as yourself feel so strong a need to draw out moments like this with excruciatingly long speeches? It all seems a bit... hm... pompous, shall we say? Unprofessional, certainly. Why, in the time it took for you to insult our dear Champion's honor, I could have assassinated the lot of them three times over and picked their pockets clean if I happened to be so inclined. A golden opportunity lost – time wasted on insults which have done nothing but give me more reason to wish you dead.” Zevran looked up at that, a smile far too friendly for the circumstances pulling at his lips. He met and held Caius's gaze for a long moment, the slaver flushing scarlet and mouth twisting into a furious snarl, then turned to gaze down at Hawke, his eyes glinting. “My apologies, my friend, for the delay in my arrival – another of those delightful sets of spikes blocked my way. It is fortunate our man here is so thoroughly full of himself, yes?”

“What are you waiting for, you imbeciles!” Cauis cried out, voice finally breaking through his anger. “Take them! Take them now!”

Zevran chuckled, his second dagger pulled free and spun around a finger before being caught in his palm. “Finally. I was wondering when the fun would begin.”

Caius let lose a raging, wordless howl, and the air cut through with the crack of electricity as he sent a bolt of lightning hurling towards Zevran. The elf dodged out of the way at the last moment, the wall behind where he had been standing scarred black as he raced towards the end of the platform, vaulting over the rail in a blur of leather and blond hair and hopping from one piece of cargo to the next until he landed gracefully on the warehouse floor.

Chaos erupted throughout the room, the mercenaries snapped out of their trance by their employer's attack. Aveline and Fenris charged forward as one, metal screeching against metal when Aveline's shield smashed into the nearest swordsman's chest, while Fenris wasted no time cleaving a rogue's collar in two. Another ran forward and around, the weighted end of Hawke's staff swinging to catch them behind the knee before they could do more than pull their daggers from their sheaths. The blow sent them sprawling to their back before she lashed out again, a wall of ice shooting up from her feet to freeze them in place and spear a charging man through the stomach between the plates of his armor.

Zevran laughed somewhere to her right, and she looked up in time to see a woman's eyes go wide before he tore his daggers free of her spine, her hair singeing when he shoved her into the path of a cone of flame Caius had intended for him. Behind him, the axe-wielder threw himself forward to take advantage of his distraction and Hawke's eyes went wide, her mouth opening to shout – but her warning was drown out by the  _ twang-swish  _ of a bolt send whizzing past her ear. Blood sprayed out from the axeman's neck, the bolt burying itself to the fletching as Zevran turned in time to watch the hulk of a man collapse.

“My thanks!” he called out across the room before feinting to one side of another sword's swing, its owner's scream short lived as his dagger jabbed up and into their neck from beneath their chin.

“I like you, Pretty Boy,” a latch creaked and another crack of lightning flashed through the air as Varric sent his next bolt flying into the leg of an assassin who had slipped behind Aveline's back. “but pull another disappearing act like that, and Bianca might not be so quick to help next ti _ — _ Hawke,  _ down _ !”

Hawke tore her attention from where Aveline had parried a swing and pushed a swordsman back onto the point of Fenris's blade, her foot catching in the hem of her robe as she spun on her heel to throw herself face first behind the nearest crate. Two arrows slammed with hollow  _ thunks _ into a barrel behind her, in line with where her stomach had been moments before. Ignoring the stab in her chest from where she had landed on top of her staff, she pushed herself onto her elbows, looking up to see that Varric had also ducked behind cover, an arrow lodged in the wall at his back and a fresh tear in the shoulder of his coat.

Hawke's heart jumped into her throat, stomach clenching at the sight. Too close. Far, far too close.

One hand caught beneath her as she shoved herself onto her knees, shifting into a crouch to chance a glance up to where the arrows had come from. Three more archers, bows reloaded and raised as they searched through the mayhem for their next targets, standing along the second platform and beneath the hanging pallet of heavy, unpacked goods. Hawke shot a glance over her shoulder to where Varric stood, back pressed flat to a tall crate and eyes meeting hers at once.

“On your count, Hawke,” he said with a nod, a bundle of three bolts loaded into Bianca's groove with a  _ snap _ . 

“One,” she said determinedly as she slid herself as far to the end of her crate as she dared, balanced and bobbing on the balls of her feet, “two,” familiar heat began to race down her arm, pooling in the center of her palm and growing as she flexed her fingers, “three!”

Both of them slipped out of cover in the same instant. Varric's bolts and Hawke's fireball tore through the pallet's support ropes one after the other, the archers beneath it given only enough time to shout in panic before they were buried beneath a wave of cargo and canvas sacks. The goods had yet to settle in place before Hawke threw herself back towards the fight, staff thrust forward to send a shard of ice blasting into the back of Aveline's wounded, but still very much alive, assassin. Heat surged in her palms once more, a gout of flame shooting out to catch the woman full in the chest just as she managed to clamber back to her feet, immediately falling back to the ground as a charred and writhing mess.

The woman screamed while Hawke twirled her stave under her arm and tucked it into her elbow, one hand clenching into a fist. With a grunt of effort, she shoved it forward in a punch, ripping a massive chunk of rock up and out of the floor to slam full-force into the head of one of three swordsmen closing in on Zevran's left. The man's teeth were sent flying from his mouth with the impact before he staggered sideways and knocked his head again against the iron band of an overturned barrel with a sickening  _ crack _ . Zevran threw her a grateful smile at the same time he flicked his wrist; a short-lived glint of light caught on metal before a second, narrow-faced man with dark hair keeled forward and dropped, the hilt of a throwing knife protruding from a ruined eye. 

Hawke paused for the span of an instant, pulling in a few short breaths and shoving sweat-dampened hair from her eyes, when a too-familiar shout sounded behind her. Heart pounding like a hammer against her ribs she turned, her stomach turning to lead at what she saw. Several meters across the room, no longer with Aveline at his back, Fenris pulled himself out from the path of a greatsword's swing which had been aimed for his midsection, his foot coming down into a slick, spreading puddle of blood from a nearby corpse. Her feet were moving before it happened, breath catching sharp in her lungs as she watched him slip in the mess, the arm he threw out in an attempt to steady himself not enough to keep him from falling onto his back or his head from snapping hard against the floor. The mercenary over him hefted his sword over his head, and panic surged swift as floodwater through her. She was too far, the man too quick, and before she could close half the distance separating her from Fenris's side the swordsman brought his weapon crashing down _—_

“ _ NO! _ ” 

Her eyes screwed shut she threw out a hand and  _ pushed,  _ staggering herself from the force of it. The mercenary was blown backwards to collide with the wall behind him, his sword flung through the air and skittering to a stop several yards away. She slid to a stop in front of Fenris as he climbed his way back to his feet, groaning with his sword hanging limp at his side and one hand pressed to the crown of his head, but otherwise still in one relatively unharmed piece. 

“Are you _—_ are you all right?” she asked between gasps for air, adrenaline pumping hard and fast through her veins. “That was a damned clo _—_ ”

“Hawke, behind you!”

Something hard hurled itself into her chest, what little air she had knocked out of her as she was shoved sideways and off her feet. Blinding, hot light flashed and collided against the space where she had been standing, a deafeningly loud  _ crack  _ of an explosion leaving white noise roaring in her ears. Hawke's shoulder and head slammed into the floor, the hard thing that was Fenris's arm followed by the rest of him as he fell on top of her, having thrown the both of them out of the way of the lightning bolt's blast. 

“I stand corrected,” she coughed, static snapping through the ends of her hair. Above her, Fenris shifted to bring his weight off of her and to his arms, a sharp breath hissing through her teeth when the ridge of his breastplate dug into her collarbone. “ _ That  _ was a damned close one.” 

“On that we can both agree.”

He winced as he brought his feet under himself, lyrium flickering when he closed his hands around both her wrists. For one brief, utterly mad span of an instant, Hawke found herself disappointed at how swiftly he had untangled himself from her – until she was hauled to her own feet, sense returning with her staff when Fenris shoved it back into her hands. By the time he had stooped down and retrieved his sword she had spun back to face what remained of the fight, the world spinning a bit around the edges with the movement, but solidifying well enough when she sent a small wave of healing magic up into her ringing head.

By some miracle of the Maker she was not about to question, what she had originally feared to be impossible odds had begun to turn remarkably in their favor. More mercenaries lay dead or incapacitated than otherwise, the handful who remained upright looking more interested in saving their own skin than continuing to fight. From his platform Caius shook in anger, neck corded and face purpling as he watched Aveline and the others press forward while his men stumbled over themselves to slink further back into a corner of the room.

“ _ You _ ,” he hissed, spittle sent flying as his head snapped back around to glare down to where Hawke stood. “Void take Danarius's blighted coin, I'll see you flayed alive myself!”

Caius's hand shot to his belt, an elaborate, jeweled dagger drawn from some hidden place beneath his robes.

“Right.” Hawke curled in upon herself, heat pooling once more in her hands. “I think I've had more than my fill of this nonsense for one day.”

Before he could do more than touch the tip of the blade to his skin Hawke twisted back to throw both hands out, flames rising in her open palm and around the grip of her staff to match the ones which fell from the ceiling and down onto Caius's head. The slaver screamed, dagger dropped and forgotten as the fabric of his robes caught and began to burn. Smoke rose in the man's face and he faltered, throwing himself from one fireball and stepping into the path of another, howling out again when his face blistered instantly in its heat. His hands raised to cup at ruined skin, covering his eyes in the hopes of protecting them – only to stumble forward blindly and pitch himself head first over the stone railing. He fell to the floor as a burning torch, landing on his neck with a _crack_ loud enough to echo through the suddenly still room.

“Now,” Hawke turned, the flames in her hands winking out as she glared into the parchment-white faces of what was left of Caius's men, “unless anyone feels the need to prove their loyalty to a dead man, I suggest you drop your weapons.” Her eyes narrowed. “Now.”

Six sets of assorted blades and shields clattered to the floor, their owners' hands left empty and raised in surrender. Hawke was even with them in a few short, agitated strides, her staff thrown into place on her back before shoving the discarded equipment well out of the mercenaries' reach while Aveline and Varric set themselves to binding their arms behind their backs.

“Yet another excellent fight!” Zevran said happily, coming up beside her as she sent a pair of daggers flying in opposite directions with her foot. “Again you impre _—_ ”

“ _Don't_ ,” Hawke said sharply as she turned to shove a finger hard into his chest, emphasizing each word with another jab, “think for one _second_ I've forgotten that stunt you pulled.”

“Ah. Yes.” To his credit, the Antivan had the good sense to look apologetic, his blades sliding back into their sheaths before returning her scowl with a sheepish glance. “I had imagined you would wish to discuss this. In all honesty, you have my sincerest apologies for a poor decision on my part. It was not my intention to make you think I had abandoned you.”

“Well you certainly could have fooled me.” Her hands fell to rest at either of her hips, foot tapping out an angry beat beneath her robes as she continued to stare the elf down. “I haven't the foggiest idea how that Warden of yours ran things in her group, but us here? We're a team. We work  _ together _ , fight  _ together _ , and if one of us gets the bright idea to run off to pull some fancy set of heroics, we at least have the common courtesy to let everyone else know so they aren't caught with their breeches round their ankles.” She paused for a moment, taking several long breaths through a flared nose before she spoke again, softer now but no less stern: “If this arrangement of ours is going to work, I need to know I can trust you. Not just for my sake, but everyone else's too. I can't lo _ — _ ... I  won't risk anyone's neck for the sake of an extra pair of blades, no matter how skilled. Understood?”

“Absolutely and entirely,” Zevran said sincerely, face smooth and free of all humor. “I assure you, Hawke, I will not make so foolish a choice again.”

“Good.” Hawke blew a strand of hair out of her eyes with a huff of air, her posture relaxing. “Maker, Zev. I don't know whether I should compliment you on your timing or set your damned boots on fire.”

“I would recommend the latter,” Fenris said as he came up behind her, frown firmly in place while he slid his sword into the scabbard between his shoulders, one hand still held gingerly to the back of his head.

“Well, what a shock this is. It seems your sullen friend has a sense of humor after all.”

“What makes you believe I'm joking?”

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please see chapter notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter has been a long time coming, and I can't tell you all how grateful I am for how patient you've been with how long it's taken me to get it written and posted. Thank you for sticking with me!
> 
> That being said, I have an important announcement of sorts. As you all know my life is exceptionally hectic. Between running my business, real life obligations and the like, the time I have for writing is not extensive. It's shrank even more so lately, as my boyfriend and I are in the process of buying our first home, and while exciting as it is the process is not an easy one. 
> 
> For the sake of my mental health and wanting to ensure I give you all the best story I possibly can, I'm going to be going on a mini-hiatus with both TCWAA and Abaddon until we've gotten ourselves settled in. Between moving, seeing to the renovations we want to do and going to DragonCon all within a two week span of each other, my head is just not going to be in the game. I apologize for the less than pleasant news, but I PROMISE I will be back sooner rather than later. At the longest, I'd say I'll be back to working on my stories by the middle of September at the VERY latest. 
> 
> I hope you can all understand, and please please please believe me when I say this is most certainly only a TEMPORARY hiatus. I could never walk away from these stories without finishing them! 
> 
> Until then, I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and please let me know what you think! 
> 
> Enjoy the rest of your summer! :3

“Is, er, everything all right, Zev?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Only another moment, if you please. I nearly have it now.”

“You sure you don't need help? You've been struggling with it for a while now.”

“Ah, but these things take time! It is an art, after all, not something to be forced. You would not rush a painter to complete his masterpiece, would you?”

Somewhere off to their right something moved, Fenris's ears perking at the sound of metal shifting. In an instant his hand shot to the hilt of his sword, assumptions jumping automatically to the thought of a mercenary they might have somehow missed in the aftermath of their fight, asinine enough to make another attempt rather than fleeing. A quick shift of his feet turned him towards them, snarl already spreading across his mouth – only to find Aveline in their place, his hostility met with a pointed arch of her brow. The tension in his jaw and shoulders eased at the sight of her, face smoothing into something he hoped resembled apology as his hand fell back to his side. It was apparently a passable attempt as the short-lived coolness in Aveline's gaze turned into something more knowing as she passed him by, giving him a nod and clap on the shoulder in the process.

“The main entrance is off in the far corner, like we thought,” she said, with a jab of her thumb over her shoulder. “Had a bit of a stroke of luck as well. Caught Maecon and Riddley while they were passing through on their rounds. I have them sending word to Donnic to bring some of the men so we can get this lot moving to the Keep and — Maker, is he _still_ fighting with that damned lock?”

“Apparently so,” Fenris said in annoyance while his eyes flicked back to where the Antivan crouched before the door. What was left of the grip he'd kept around his temper throughout the day was beginning to slip, the man's temporary abandonment having worn spectacularly through his patience. Nothing but reckless bravado, Fenris thought bitterly to himself as he scowled down at the back of his head, meant only as an attempt to impress and build his arrogance larger still. Though if nothing else, he found himself glad Hawke had seen through the show and had not hesitated to take him to task for the carelessness of it.

He forced the thought out of his mind with a small shake of his head, grateful for the distraction of Varric's voice before he could begin to dwell on the implications behind the notion.

“I don't know, Hawke. Looks like you might want to reconsider that little threat of yours before you give Pretty Boy my slot,” he said, thick lips curling into a smirk as he gave a mocking _tsk_. “A rogue who can disarm a damned near invisible set of traps but can't pick a lock to save his life? Now that's just depressing.”

“Such slander! You wound my pride, my stout friend.” A metallic  _tick_ , followed in short succession by two more and the soft  _click_ of the lock's latch sliding free. “Aha! There you have it! I will consider any apologies you would wish to offer me now.”

“Right. Well done.” Aveline stepped forward, bustling the assassin out of her way as she took up the door's latch in her hand and gestured towards the bound mercenaries with her chin. “You and Varric stay out here. Make sure our friends don't try anything unwise while we sort out whatever mess Caius left behind.”

Fenris did not miss the way the assassin's posture stiffened, or the quick sideways glance he cast in Hawke's direction. When she gave no sign of disagreeing with Aveline's instructions, however, he assented to them with a nod.

“And so it shall be done,” he said with a tight smile, hair swishing about his ears from the sharpness of his turn while he made his way back towards the far corner of the room. Varric watched him go for a moment before moving to follow after him with a shrug, turning to toss a glance back towards them as he went.

“Give us a yell if you run into anything interesting. Or more slavers. Either way, we'll be here if you need us.”

“Let us have this over with,” Fenris said shortly as he turned back to face the doorway, eagerness to be gone now that their task was nearly complete gnawing at the back of his head. Even with the skirmish finished the air still hung charged about them, settling uncomfortably against his skin. A prickling, intrusive thing, the sensation was not unlike the static which had coursed over flesh and brands when he had thrown himself and Hawke out of the path of Caius's lightning. Yet even with the long minutes since the mage's end they refused to dull or die out, leaving Fenris agitated, restless. His fingers flexed at his sides to keep himself from rubbing at his arms, certain there would be no balm to be found for something he was slowly beginning to believe the product of his own mind, though whatever the reason for it he could not hope to guess.

No, there was nothing for it but to leave this place and its ghosts behind. The sooner it was possible, the better.

“Have to say I agree with Fenris,” Hawke said from where she had placed herself beside Aveline, words coming out tired but carrying none of the same wariness he himself felt. “I've had enough of sewers and dodgy warehouses for the day, thank you very much.”

The door opened into a room much like all of the others they had come across that afternoon; stacks of dust coated crates and barrels were piled high to cover the rough-hewn boards which lined the floor and walls, their carved stone hidden away in all places save the ceiling. Thin shafts of sunlight poured in from small windows set along the face of the rock which Fenris realized must face out towards the docks, while a handful of unlit sconces sat bolted into the room's corners and at either side of a cluttered desk. Aveline made for it at once, her interest snatched by a leather bound ledger much like the one they had spotted in the hands of Caius's business partner earlier by the moorings of his ship.

The pages rustled beneath her hand as she pawed through them, her finger catching and jabbing at one in particular after a few moments' searching while the lines creasing her forehead deepened. “It looks like we were lucky,” she said in disgust, her mouth thinning before she looked up towards Hawke. “They were scheduled to move out their latest shipment of... _cargo_ in less than an hour. Much later and they would have slipped out beneath our noses. Again _._ ”

“Does it say anything about where they were holding them in here?” Hawke asked, looking back from where she had been about to turn a corner and slip behind the mountain of unpacked goods. “This place is liked a blighted—”

“Champion?”

A new voice, high pitched and muffled by the wall of wares it was hidden behind, sounded from around the corner where Hawke stood, the meekness it carried far more familiar to Fenris's ear than he would have wished. It struck at something in him he had long since tried to bury, the memory of how his own speech had once shook with the same timid pitch jumping to the front of his mind before he could do anything to stop it. His stomach clenched at the thought: the image of himself, cowed at Danarius's feet, flashed in front of his eyes and was chased by a rolling wave of nausea. No sooner had it appeared than he was shoving it away, however, the spark still flicking against his skin turning sharp for a second's time, spiking with his annoyance at himself for allowing something meager as a scared captive's voice to leave him shaken.

“I believe that is your answer,” he said with unintended shortness while he crossed to round the stack of goods at Hawke's shoulder, only to have his teeth clench at what they found.

Hidden away in the shadows of the corner stood a cell, thick with the scent of damp and unwashed bodies, built of iron bars rusted with age which reached barely a human's height above the floor before they folded backwards to connect with the wall behind it. Several sets of chains were bolted into the stone as well, shackles and collars attached at their free ends. Black and sinister as the intentions of the men who had made use of them, some hung free to pool against the floor, others pulled taut to hang in the air from the wrists and necks of the captives within.

The nausea flared back into life in Fenris's stomach at the sight of them, though this time it was far more heated and bitter, paired not with troubling memories but disgust which snared in his throat and twisted his mouth into a jagged, harsh line. Five of them. Two elven men and a woman, as well as a pair of familiar youths he recalled seeing along the harbor walk not a week's time ago. They huddled together against the far wall now, faces caked in dirt and eyes blown wide as they watched Hawke take the few steps needed to reach the cell.

“It  _is_ you!” The chains about the elven woman's neck and wrists creaked, drawn tight when she brought herself as close to the bars as they would allow, what little light crept into their corner making the angular lines of her face all the more sharp. Dress torn about the hem, forehead and hair stained with dried blood, she looked as though she might crumble under her relief, shoulders rounding and eyes growing damp the moment they fell onto Hawke. “Oh, praise the Maker! Praise Andraste!”

One of the men, short and sporting yellowed bruises at an eye and along his jaw, stepped forward then as well, his hands raised imploringly before him. “Please... please let us free. My wife, my son... They've no idea where I've been for near a fortnight now.”

“It's all right,” Hawke said quietly, tone kept gentle despite the firmness Fenris could see creeping ever further along the lines of her shoulders and back as she gave the door of the cell an experimental pull. “We'll have you out as soon as we can. Aveline.” A quick toss of her head sent her gaze towards the guard captain still behind them, her expression turned pinched and harried. “Go get Varric. I'm not breaking this lock on my own.”

“There's no need!” the woman said hurriedly, metal links protesting again as she threw a hand out to point back towards the slaver's desk, its corner just visible from where they stood. “The mage's keys are in there! I saw him put them in one of the drawers before he ran out into the other room.”

A short moment of searching later and Aveline had moved to place them in Hawke's hand, the ring made of heavy brass and carrying near on a dozen keys. “Which one is it?” Hawke asked with a glance towards the woman, her hand already at the lock. “Do you remember?”

“That one, just there in the middle. The one with three hoops at the top.”

“Bless you, Champion,” the man said with a heavy sigh. “You truly are as merciful as they say.”

The door of the cell fell open without protest, both Hawke and Aveline wasting no time in making their way inside to begin working at the prisoners' bindings.

Fenris, however, held himself back, turning instead to stalk back around the corner. The earlier bristle of energy he had felt sparked and snapped along his skin, the realization that it had not been born of disquiet but slow-building ire hitting him hard. Caius's words echoed through his head as he began to pace a short line out of the sight of the others, the dig of his gauntlets into his palms acting in counterpoint to the tight ache building beneath his ribs.

_ Certain interested parties have offered a most handsome reward … The both of you together are worth ten times as much … Danarius … _

Something feral-sounding slipped past Fenris's bared teeth. Yes, they had been successful once again, but there had been a moment far too long where he had not been so certain luck was on their side, too many close calls and near misses for him to be able to avoid  the thought of ‘what if’. It had been clear from the start that death would have been a kindness beyond the mage's mercy, that if their group had been the one to fall rather than his own Fenris would not have been the only one made to wear one of the sets of chains in the cage behind him. 

_ The both of you together are worth ten times as much … Danarius … _

_ **Danarius** _ _ .  _

The urge was nearly too strong for him to ignore, but Fenris jerked himself to a halt before fury claimed the better of him, a small spark of light flaring along his arms as he dropped his head to bite out another curse rather than take his frustrations out on the desk in front of him. He was a fool of the worst sort, the fact that he had not thought of the possibility of his old master placing a bounty on Hawke's head in addition to his own a sign of just how complacent he had become during his time within the city's walls. It would be a matter of pride to him – the idea of his prized slave being seen, as he would take it, under the control of some lowbrow apostate would have galled him once the stories reached his door.  _ Of course _ he would have felt it necessary, of the utmost importance, that he make an example of her as well as his runaway. His pride would have demanded it. 

Caius had been only the first; by now every band of slavers between Minrathous and Perivantium would have been made aware of the reward awaiting the first able to subdue Kirkwall's Champion. And while Hawke would no doubt brush off his concerns should she know of them, insist their group's streak of successes against each lot they had come against proof of how small the threat they posed was, Fenris could not,  _ would  _ not allow himself the same naivety. So long as Danarius still drew breath and the promise of coin remained the chase would persist, each felled hunter replaced by four more ready to undertake the challenge themselves. And how long would it be before one of them succeeded? Hawke may have prided herself on her tendency for narrow escapes, but even she could not truly expect fate to grant them such luck indefinitely. No, it would only be a matter of time until her fortunes ran their course, until she too would know the feel of iron at her throat.

All because of his decision to remain at her side.

“Fenris?”

The sound of Hawke's voice behind him snapped him from his thoughts, expression still hard as he jerked his head towards her. She all but balked at the sight of him, a startled blink the only hint he needed to see her surprise for what it was, and while he may have known it to be unfounded and could not for the life of him think of a reasoning for it, it still made the anger churning in his chest spike.

“We've... finished. With the shackles.” The lines of her forehead shifted, lifted brows falling only to pinch themselves together above her eyes. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he said, and while the sharpness behind the word was expected, the wince which flicked across her face in response sent something sharp digging between his ribs. “... I am fine.”

She took a step closer, head cocked, and he moved without thought in response, careful to keep the same distance between them. “Are you sure? You've gone a bit pale and—”

“ _ Hawke— _ ”

“That's the last of it, then,” Aveline said as she came around the corner from the cell, her voice as welcome and well-timed a diversion as Fenris had ever known. Hawke's hand, half raised and looming dangerously close, dropped back to her side as she glanced back to the guard captain, her distraction enough for Fenris to give himself an extra foot's worth of space.

“I suppose you'll need to question them as well?” she asked when she turned herself to face Aveline, Fenris almost unable to catch the relieved sigh building in his throat at the loss of her attention.

Aveline nodded, the corners of her mouth drawn down. “I have to if we're to have any case to build against Caius's partner at the docks. They'll be free to go home to their families within the hour.” Her eyes flicked from Hawke to Fenris, and while he made his best efforts to ease his expression into something neutral, her frown still deepened when their gazes met. “It's been near on a half hour now. Donnic and the others should be arriving soon, and Varric and I are more than capable of keeping the rabble out there under control until then.” Her eyes fell back onto Hawke then, gratitude plain in her voice when she said: “You've done enough for the day – take Fenris and Zevran with you and head home. We'll have everything under control.”

“But—”

“I said  _go home,_ Hawke. I can handle this from here.”

Hawke made a noise of protest, only to have it met head-on by a glare from the guard captain, both gauntlet-covered hands coming up to rest at her hips. “Oh...  _Fine_ then. Maker knows I could use a meal and new pair of boots anyway.” She was facing Fenris once again in the next second, hair and staff moving against her back while she turned with a huff. “What do you say? Ready to be off?”

“Exceptionally so,” he said, the gruff edge yet to leave his voice.

Hawke's mouth pursed at the sound, Fenris finding himself glad when she made no further attempts to draw attention to the sour turn of his mood. Instead her head tilted forward, a small, disappointed sigh dropped to the floor before she started off in the direction of the door. “By all means, then. I've had my fill of this place.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was made swiftly apparent that the assassin was also more than of a mind to be on his way from the warehouse, the enthusiasm in his agreement to join Hawke on her return home outmatched only by the size of the grin which spread across his face. Varric's farewell was kept brief, his quip of false annoyance at being left to play jailor met with rolled eyes and an offer to payback his hardship with a round at their card game later that week. Plied with the promise of free alcohol the dwarf's frown quickly became a smirk, a final wave of farewell from him and quick glance towards the mercenaries bound together in the far corner of the room the only precursor to Hawke turning to lead the way towards the warehouse's exit.

Even with the bustle of workers and overpowering scent of fish and salt, Fenris could not deny the relief he felt at being back out in the open air of the docks. It was not enough to ease his worries completely – a change of scenery did all of nothing to remedy his new-found concerns, after all. Still, the feel of a cool breeze off the water and through his hair acted as, if not a cure, then a balm for overtaxed nerves, allowing at least some portion of the tension he had carried since Caius's threat to fall away.

‘Some’ was far from ‘all’ , however, and much as Fenris may have made an effort not to show any further agitation than what he had already let slip in the slavers' den, he could not quite be rid of the stiffness which turned his jaw to stone and left his steps clipped. Hawke, exasperatingly keen as always to the foulness of his mood, needed little time to take notice of it, the glances shot back over her shoulder towards him growing in frequency as they made their way back along the wharfs. Yet draw her brow and worry at her lip as she might, she made no further attempts to pry into his thoughts, a wired silence growing in their absence. The feel of it pressed hard at the back of Fenris's mind, guilt at his part in its arrival leaving something knotted in the pit of his stomach. But undesirable a turn as the mood between them had taken, he could not bring himself to regret it, the threat of explanations he did not wish to give enough to hold his tongue.

Their walk continued in strained quiet, the lower market passed and first several sets of staircases climbed without so much as a word spoken between their group. The assassin, heedless as could be expected from one so thoroughly self-obsessed, seemed to find no discomfort in the strain which followed them, his attention flicking lazily through the crowd and a low, aimless tune whistled past his lips as they moved. By the time they had reached the last stretch of the Lowtown market the sound of it was well and truly grating at Fenris's ears, and it was with a pleased sigh that he spotted the first glimpse of the district's stairway, tan stone looming high over patron and storefront alike. Soon they would be parting ways; Fenris to climb his way to the top of Hightown's plaza, Hawke and her unsavory house guest to turn right down a narrow side street which would lead them down into Darktown towards the tunnels into her estate's cellars.

They were nearly there, Fenris only just beginning to wonder how much time he should allow himself to bathe and rest before returning to his hidden post for the evening, when—

“Messere, please! I've done nothing wrong!”

The shout sent something heavy to settle in the center of his chest, what little consolation he had found in the end of at least this day's troubles smothered beneath a rise of new irritation. He grimaced while he turned his head towards its sound, knowing well before he laid eyes on the pale-faced woman or the group of armored men surrounding her that Hawke would find reason to insert herself, and by connection  _ him _ , into the situation. Then one of the men turned, a flash of sunlight glinting against polished steel and the weight in his chest plummeted into the bottom of his stomach, the hairs at the back of his neck prickling at the sight of a black burnished sword in the center of their cuirass. 

_ Templars.  _

All resignation he had felt moments before disappeared in the time it took his eyes to flick to the back of Hawke's head, a slow-churning dread rising in its place which curled all the harder about his ribs as he watched her bristle and draw herself up to her full height. “Hawke,” he said in warning, forehead lining while her hands balled into white-knuckled fists at her sides, “do _ not. _ ”

Beside them the assassin remained unaware of the new brewing tension, his expression one of piqued curiosity as he came to a halt and threw a quick look between them. “Something wrong, my friend? Is there a reason we have stopped?”

“Yes.” The templars moved a step closer to the woman, her eyes going wide as she shuffled herself backwards to press flush against her doorway. Fenris was certain he could hear Hawke's teeth grind together at the sight of it. “There most certainly is.”

“ _ Hawke— _ ” 

There was nothing for it. Before he could so much as make to step forward, intent on taking hold of her arm to force her away from the scene and whatever asinine intervention she wished to attempt, she was already well beyond his reach. Jaw high she stalked across the street towards the corner hovel, the distinct lack of caution in her approach leaving him certain whatever miniscule sense of self-preservation she may have held had been shucked off in favor of idiocy.

“ _ Venhedis _ .” 

The assassin's voice sounded somewhere to his right, a questioning inflection lifting the last word. Fenris made no attempt to hear or answer him, all focus split between his rush to see himself back to Hawke's side and the string of obscenities flitting through his head regarding daft mages without the sense to leave well enough alone.

“Mind telling me just what's going on here?” Hawke asked from where she now stood a yard's length from the nearest templar, tone thick with false  congeniality and hands anchored firmly to her hips. 

The dark-haired man turned to look back over his shoulder at the question, annoyance swiftly paired with a frown at the sight of her. “Be on your way, Champion,” he said, with a condescending sniff. “The Circle's business is no concern of yours.”

“Oh but it most certainly  _ is _ .” The derision in her voice was unmistakable, the sound of it tearing a groan from Fenris's throat which he was only just able to catch in his mouth while he brought himself to a stop behind her. “At least when templars start harassing innocent people in the middle of the street.”

One of the dark-haired man's companions shot a glare of their own towards Hawke at the accusation, thin face lining while the man next to her shifted in place, mouth pulled down into a sneer. Fenris's fingers twitched, muscles tensing against the urge to reach for his sword while the pair's leader threw out his arm behind him, dissuading whatever intentions they may have held with a firm gesture.

“This ' _ innocent _ ',” he said coolly as he turned to face Hawke, hand moving to point accusingly towards the cowering woman, “aided an escaped apostate. By the law of the order, her crime cannot go unpunished.”

“All I did was feed my cousin!” the woman shouted, her voice cracked through with desperation as she tossed a fearful glance around the templars' backs. “She turned up here in the middle of the night! They'd starved her – had her whipped! What was I supposed to do?”

The tightness in Fenris's chest grew stronger at the anger which flared into life and off Hawke, hot and palpable as heat thrown from an open fire. And while there was no way for him to see her face from his angle at her back, the jerk of her head left him dreadfully certain the look she passed over the templar held no small amount of revulsion.

“Hawke,” he said in quiet insistence, frustration and wariness working at his last strings of patience, “this is not wi—”

“Whipped?” The attempt did him little good. She cut him off without the slightest sign of having heard him while her focus turned back to the woman, voice carrying an edge sharp as any dagger.

Her mouth pressed thin as she gave a hurried nod, brown hair coming loose from her tail to shake about her ears. “She was in a terrible way, messere. Maker, there's no way I could have lived with myself if I'd turned my back on her when she was like that!”

“So the templars have taken to beating their mages now?” Again Hawke's attention went to the dark-haired man, and again she made no effort to curb the show of her anger. “Here I thought the order was sworn to  _ protect  _ them, not pummel them to within an inch of their life.”

“ _ Hawke, _ ” Fenris said urgently, irritation slipping from the grip he kept around it and into his voice, earning him an indignant look tossed over her shoulder. Yet slighted as she may have felt at his sharpness he simply could not find it within himself to care _.  _ His restraint had been drawn too tight, his want to see the both of them as far removed from the scene needling him just as insistently as her stubbornness and leaving no room for guilt over wounded feelings. Annoyance was still there when he spoke next, his brow drawn down hard over narrowed eyes. “This is not our place. We should move on.”

The templar shifted, drawing himself up to a fuller height while his expression hardened. “Listen to your elf, Champion. The Knight-Commander tolerates your own use of magic in gratitude of your service to the city, but do not think this means she will stand for your interference with the order's duties.” Focus turned back to his men, he gave a short gesture towards the woman with his chin. “Ser Eleanor, see to it that this woman is taken in for questioning. She will face her punishment for her crimes.”

“No!” The woman's eyes widened, white face turning green at the edges while she made to move further away from the templars coming towards her, only to press that much firmer against her door, hands scrabbling at knotted wood. “No, I've done nothing wrong! You can't do this! Andraste save me, I haven't—!”

The templar at her right flew forward, lifted off of her feet and thrown effortlessly against the wall at the side of the doorway, her shout cut short by the crash of metal against stone. She clattered to the ground in an unmoving, breathless heap, and before Fenris could do more than register what had happened her companion was given the same treatment, head and shoulder snapping hard against the wall before falling like a dropped sack of flour. His sense came back to him in time to turn an incredulous glare onto Hawke, stance shifted wide with her hand still outstretched, the last flickers of mana from her force spell dying out around the tips of her fingers. Somewhere behind them a pair of boots scrapped against cobblestones, the assassin rushing towards the commotion while the templars' leader spun back to face them, all pretense at civility abandoned when a snarl tore its way across his face.

“You will pay dearly for this, _Champ—_ ”

It happened faster than Fenris could blink. There was not even enough time for his hand to finish shooting to the hilt of his blade, the flare of heat along his brands dying out prematurely at the sight of the man being drawn up into the air as though by an invisible hook. He hovered there for the span of an instant, enough time for him to curse Hawke's name, before he was dragged back down and into the ground with equal strength, skull cracking against stone hard enough to leave him unconscious before his body could settle in place.

Fenris heard Hawke move, listened as she went to the woman and instructed her to find some place safe to hide herself while she offered her hurried thanks before taking off at a run down the street, giving some vague assurance that she would find refuge with family at a nearby farmstead. He took in none of it, the conversation nothing more than a wash of white noise in the background of the anger rushing in his head.

In a blur of black leather and white hair he turned on her, wanting nothing more than to scream, to take hold of her by the shoulders and shake her hard as he could. Because by now he was convinced there would be no other way to make this woman – this damned, senseless fool of a _mage –_ see anything close to the reason she so desperately lacked. In three short strides he was at her front, and while he was somehow able to keep his fists balled against the impulse, he was still certain the glower he wore was dark enough to rival the worst clouds of a summer storm. She met his anger with a defiant lift of her chin, arms preemptively crossed over her chest and mouth hard, no sign of shame or guilt for him to find behind her challenge. The sight of it only made the heat in his chest broil that much worse, bile clawing its way from his stomach up his throat to burn at the back of his tongue, certain at this moment he could very well spit acid if he wished to. 

“ _What have you_ _**done?** _ ” The question hissed through his teeth, lips pulling back to bare them in a feral growl. 

Hawke sniffed, head lifting all the higher as her eyes flashed with her typical,  _infuriating_ obstinacy _._ “By the looks of it I'd say I just kept an innocent woman from being tossed in some Gallows cell to rot.” 

“You attacked  _templars!_ ”

“What was I supposed to do? Sit here and do nothing while they dragged her off?”

“Allow them to carry out their orders!” Breath came hard through his nose, chest heaving as he made a sharp gesture out towards the shape of the Gallows looming just within sight in the far distance of the harbor. “What do you suppose the Knight-Commander will do when she learns of this?”

Hawke gave a hard snort, eyes a small, nearly imperceptible pinch. “I really couldn't give a damn less what Meredith thinks. Just because  _she_ feels like she has claim over running the city doesn't mean I have to cow to her ordering her men to harass random people on the street. I'm supposed to be their 'Champion', remember?”

“Continue forcing yourself into matters which are no concern of yours and you will lose yourself that title, Hawke – along with whatever protection it gives you.”

Her mouth fell open, some retort half formed in her mouth, but a sharp shift spun him in place before she could get it out, unwilling to listen to whatever latest attempt at justifications she wished to throw at him. Muttered curses fell hard to the ground with each footstep as he stormed off in the direction of the Hightown stairs, whatever guilt he may have felt at leaving her behind quickly drowned out by still-growing choler, unable for the life of him to reason how it was he could expect himself to keep a woman so keen on self-destruction safe.

 

 

 


End file.
